


Of Succession

by quantum_leek



Series: Onus [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Cute Kids, Drama, F/M, Family, Family Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 23:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 103,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16397075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantum_leek/pseuds/quantum_leek
Summary: Two years after the death of Aulea, Regis finds himself faced with a new burden: the question of succession. Meanwhile, Accordo is having a revolution, Niflheim is harrying Lucis' borders, the weight of the Wall is beginning to take its toll, the council is harassing Regis to give Lucis a new queen, and all he wants to do is spend a quiet evening with his children once in a while.





	1. Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second fic in my series Onus, which is a sort-of prequel to my series Shattered Dreams. That said, this story is standalone and, while the previous installment may provide some context, it is necessary to have read Of Endurance before reading this.

 

If he had learned only one thing in the past year, it was that toddlers knew an uncanny amount about ruling a kingdom.

For all that adults liked to tell children how little they understood about the world, parents knew better. While it may have been the case that there was so much babies had yet to learn, it was also true that there was so much they had yet to forget.

For instance:

Failure is inevitable. But when Noctis fell, he got right back up without ever wondering if he had fallen because he wasn't meant to walk. Everyone falls, sometimes.

Everything is worth noting. Most people passed by that cracked tile in the garden five times a day and had long since forgotten it was there. But every time they went for a walk, Reina had to sit down and stick her fingers in the gap. Regis never stopped her. Someday, when everyone else passed by that forgotten man standing on the street corner with a sign, she would stop. She would keep noticing.

Hunger and fatigue are perfectly legitimate reasons to scream and cry. Incidentally, if you happened to be the king, it was best to do this where no one could see.

Risks are necessary for progress. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, people forgot this; they began practicing caution even at the price of everything else. Meanwhile, Noctis climbed headfirst out of his highchair because he had no sense of self-preservation and how ever was he going to get the noisy frog toy before his sister if he didn't  _get out immediately_?

Sometimes it is difficult to notice things from so high up. At a foot and a half off the ground, Reina never missed the steady march of a line of ants, the pretty pebbles in the garden, or the somewhat fuzzy blueberry that had rolled under the couch at least a fortnight ago. The important thing to remember, at six feet off the ground, was that a different perspective would always reveal new things. Also, that if she put that blueberry in her mouth (which she would) she would absolutely be sick later that night.

No matter how poorly things go, never give up. No matter how often they fell, they always got back up. No matter how often they were told they could  _not_ have cookies for dinner, they always asked. And, yes, sometimes they screamed and cried and threw themselves dramatically upon the floor when life was looking  _especially_ dismal from a foot and a half off the ground, but they  _never gave up_.

And those, as far as Regis could tell, were the primary tenants of ruling a kingdom.

Any two-year-old could do his job.

"Cookie!"

"No."

" _Cookie now!_ "

Well. Perhaps not  _that_ two year old.

Noctis rocked in his high chair and screamed. His nanny, Creare Vinculum, dodged a flailing fist and swiped his face with a washcloth.

But the  _other_ one…

Across the table, Reina regarded her brother with a level stare and shoved six blueberries into her mouth.

"Reina, too many!" Crea had eyes on the back of her head. It was the thing Regis envied second most about her.

The first was that she got to spend all day with his children.

" _I_  would allow you to eat as many blueberries as your little heart desires." Regis stuck his hand in front of Reina's mouth and received six half-chewed, very damp blueberries. "Except the fuzzy ones."

Crea shot him a smile over her shoulder as she pulled Noct out of his high chair and set him on the ground. "Go play, then, you little monster!"

Regis was beginning to understand why they called them the 'terrible twos,' but, even so, no amount of screaming, crying, and exercising their right to say 'no' as loudly and emphatically as possible could keep him from coming back for more.

Noctis shot off, as fast as his tiny legs would take him, out of the kitchen and into the adjacent room.

"Dada!" Reina said.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Booberry!"

 _Everything_ was an exclamation at two.

Regis turned to find her holding a blueberry out to him. Never mind the fact that her little fingers were covered in baby drool—pardon,  _toddler drool_ —he ate it anyway.

"When she starts trying to convince other people to eat her breakfast, it means the meal is over." Crea passed him the washcloth. "Here. Make yourself useful."

"I do  _try_." Perhaps he didn't have Crea's fist-dodging prowess, but Reina was passably clean when he was done with her. Likely because Reina rarely tried to punch people for taking a washcloth to her face. Unlike her twin.

"Your Majesty?"

The door out to the hall was open (which meant Noctis was trying to get out), and a voice called in from the outside.

"Here, Weskham—is it that time already?" Regis lifted Reina out of her high chair, intending to deposit her on the ground as Crea had done to Noctis, and found her resistant. She held onto his arms and refused to put her feet down.

Just because she was more reserved didn't mean she wasn't also more stubborn.

"I'm afraid so, Sire." Weskham, his friend and steward, appeared in the kitchen doorway holding Regis' cape and crown.

It was a hassle to have cape and pauldron strapped in place while his daughter refused to relinquish her hold on his suit, but what was life without a challenge, anyway? Besides, Weskham was a professional. When he was through, it wasn't even crooked.

Weskham pulled a comb from his breast pocket and flattened Regis' mused hair back before hooking the crown behind his ear.

"I swear, if you were ever to leave, Lucis would fall," Regis said.

Or, at least, Lucis' king would look considerably less kingly in the mornings. And in the afternoons. And the evenings, as well.

He would probably, also, miss a meeting or five.

Weskham only smiled.

The nursery was a small suite of rooms. Ostensibly, it was fit to grow with the prince and princess as necessary. In reality, they were likely to start bickering as soon as they were old enough to understand that siblings were people, too, and they would be put in separate rooms for everyone's sanity. Mostly for everyone  _else's_  sanity. But, for now, it was a nursery—complete with two cribs, a set of rocking chairs, three bookcases full of brightly colored books, and half a dozen crates and shelves lined with toys. Or they were  _meant_ to be lined with toys, but in practice the toys were usually strewn across the floor in a veritable minefield of sharp points.

Attached, on either side of the nursery were a kitchen and dining area, and a bathroom—which was done up with little chocobos. Very cute. Regis tried not to let his envy show.

At the moment, the nursery was home to Crea—who was dragging Noctis back in through the open hall door—and a pair of nurses who were valiantly trying to clear the obstacle course before the king or his steward stepped on a plastic block.

It was always wise to wear shoes in the nursery.

"My dear, I fear that I really must go," Regis said.

Reina stared at him, mouth set, and held tight to his suit jacket. She knew what the words meant. She just didn't want to acknowledge them.

"I promise to come back."

Her bottom lip protruded, just enough to let him know she didn't find this tradeoff acceptable. A little wrinkle formed on her smooth forehead. And those  _eyes_! How could he say no to her mother's eyes?

"Do you see what I have to contend with, Weskham?"

"Yes, Sire." He was trying not to laugh.

Regis lowered to put her on the ground. She didn't scream. She didn't wail. She just held onto his suit for all she was worth, keeping her legs clamped securely at his waist.

"Crea. I need you to rescue me."

Crea deposited a loudly complaining Noctis among his quickly disappearing toys and came to Regis' rescue.

"For every ounce that Noctis is loud, Reina has two ounces of stubbornness. Come on, little princess; Dad can't take you to court with him." She managed to slide one hand between Reina and Regis and began to pry tiny fingers from the front of his suit.

"She comes by it honestly," said Weskham.

"I know," Crea said, still working at Reina's grasp.

"What is this? How dare you speak of your king in such an offhand manner? This is conspiracy. This is  _treason_. I will not tolerate this sort of talk. Respect your king, Steward!"

He wasn't fooling anyone.

Crea managed to detach Reina from Regis and lifted her out of his arms.

Reina  _did_ scream for that. She screamed like a fire engine and reached, for all she was worth, toward Regis even as Crea pulled her away.

Tiny tears formed in her bright blue eyes.

"Ah, little princess! I cannot stay, even if you cry."

Would that he could.

"Dada…"

He caught her hand so she wouldn't grab his face and leaned in to give her a scratchy kiss. She held onto his finger, forcing him to break her grasp as he pulled away again.

"As soon as I can, I  _swear_  I will return."

The idea of future benefits didn't register well in growing minds. She didn't stop crying, but he pulled himself away all the same.

"Noctis! Have a wonderful day, little prince." He swept Noct off his feet; he nearly got hit in the face with a yellow block, but with record reaction time he managed to give Noct a kiss and put him back on his feet, all the while avoiding a red mark on his forehead.

"Bye-bye, Dada!" Noctis waved the block.

Reina had stopped screaming, but she was still making intermittent sounds of discontent as she rubbed her eyes. Regis waved to her even as he backed away toward the door. She waved back. He tore himself away and turned down the hall.

"What is the time?" He asked.

Weskham pulled a pocket watch from his vest. "Seven-fifty, precisely."

It was a good thing that the Crownsguards at the end of the hall held the doors open for him and Weskham, or Regis would have run into them as he stared.

"Do you  _always_ come to fetch me early?"

"Most usually, Sire." Weskham put the watch back in his pocket. "I have judged that you will not be on time to court without a fifteen minute buffer to say goodbye to the little prince and princess."

"If you were ever to leave," Regis repeated, "Lucis would fall."

From the moment he walked through the throne room doors, he was king once more. Weskham might have argued that he was  _always_ king, but Regis did his very best not to be, inside the nursery. Noctis and Reina would grow up unable to escape from their bloodline; they didn't need him trying to be a king as well as their father on top of that. Better that they remain separate. Or as separate as was possible. Inevitably, the kingdom called.

And so he went. Beyond those double doors, Lucis waited; a long marble floor tiled up to the stairs—above sat his throne and, on either side, the seats of the council. Those were already filled when Regis arrived, leaving Weskham at the door. The shuffle of feet and the rustle of fabric echoed as all twelve councillors rose.

Clarus—royal adviser, King's Shield, and his oldest friend—met him at the throne.

"News from Accordo, Sire," Clarus said.

"The unrest?" Regis took his seat.

That had been brewing for years. Lucis had long assumed it would come to nothing—presumably the empire believed the same, for they had done nothing to placate Accordo's people, thus far. And yet, in the past few months, tensions had been growing. Rumblings in the capital city spoke of renewed support to shrug off the imperial hand on their shoulder.

"Operatives in Altissia report that yesterday a group of several hundred civilians stood in silent protest outside the manor. Their demands have been issued through various channels—it comes down to much the same thing each time: they wish to govern themselves, and now they have enough support, at least, to organize a march. Niflheim may well be rethinking their complacent hold on Accordo."

"We should send representatives immediately." From the council galley, Felice Antares, Master of Services, spoke. "If there is some chance that we might rekindle old ties with Accordo, we must waste no time."

"You forget yourself, Master Felice." Aldebrand Thuban, Master of the Treasury, leaned forward to speak. "If we were to forge a new alliance with Accordo, we would be obligated to aid in their revolution. That will only lead to more Lucian lives lost on the battlefield—have we not enough trouble of our own with the empire?"

"If we could muster our strength and theirs," Felice insisted, "We will both stand a better chance against Niflheim."

Aldebrand shook his head. "It is folly. We should wait and let the trouble in Altissia run its course. If Accordo breaks free from the empire,  _then_ , perhaps, we might open talks of treaties and alliances with them."

"If they have already won their revolution, what incentive could we possibly offer them?" Felice asked.

"They will still have Nifhleim to contend with, revolution or no," Aldebrand said. "They will not lightly turn down an olive branch."

Given the chance, Felice and Aldebrand would be at each other's throats all morning. Regis glanced at Clarus.

Clarus needed no more telling that that. "As of yet, there is no revolution. It is mere talk and peaceful protests. This may well end peacefully, yet."

"But, correct me if I err, Master Clarus, we  _might_ plant a seed and encourage it to grow in that direction." When the Master of Justice, Hamon Carina, spoke, others quieted. Perhaps because it happened so rarely. Perhaps because he had a way of putting his finger on the truth that everyone else was dancing around—however ugly it may have been.

"Are you suggesting that we incite revolution?" Felice was aghast. She ought to have expected it from him, by now.

"I am merely stating that it could be done, if His Majesty wished it." Hamon spread his hands.

He also had a way of bringing the discussion to ground in a few words.

Regis sat forward in his throne. "Clarus, how many operatives have we stationed in Altissia at the moment?"

"Half a dozen, all deeply undercover, Your Majesty."

The prospect of an alliance with Accordo—the first in a hundred and fifty years—was a tempting one. Niflheim had a mighty army, one difficult to battle with traditional soldiers. If they could stay in the shadows and offer aid to Accordo, it might be worth the trouble. But a few hundred civilians were an insufficient force to support.

"For the moment we will wait. Let Accordo stew while we observe. If this trend gains momentum, it may well be worth the risk to extend our hand in alliance. Until then, your operatives will remain hidden and report all developments."

"Very good, Your Majesty." Clarus motioned to one of the attendants across the hall as he descended the steps to deliver the necessary orders.

The usual lull in discussion formed as they laid one subject to rest, before Aldebrand brought up the next. "Sire, concerns have been raised, among the corporations, about the most recent iteration of the tax plan."

 _Someone_ was always unhappy with taxes. Nevertheless, he sat through the complaints; the goal was to minimize the discontent while maximizing the income. It was a delicate line to walk.

From taxes they moved on to roads—engineers recommended bridge maintenance for the mainland connector and they had more road patching than the budget allowed for after an unexpectedly rough winter. Then there was the housing market and the still-new export regulations. And then. And then. And then.

It wasn't uncommon for it to be dark—even in the summer—by the time he had any space to breathe.

It also wasn't uncommon to miss bedtime.

The nursery was unlit, but for a single night light casting the shadows of their cribs on the far wall. Regis stopped and leaned in the doorway. A nurse sat in the corner chair, where he was used to seeing Crea. For the life of him, he couldn't remember her name. Likely, he ought to have paid more attention to his own childrens' caretakers, but…

Just more excuses.

She looked up when he entered and leapt to her feet. He motioned for her to sit—a practiced motion—and pressed his finger to his lips as he crept forward.

Both twins were asleep in their respective beds. It wasn't so long ago that he would come at this time of night and find them still awake… or that he would stay through the night so he could be present when they woke hungry. As much as he appreciated the changes—watching them learn new words, teaching them, speaking to them, answering increasingly frequent questions—it hadn't occurred to him just how much more he would miss once they had a more normal schedule.

And when they went to school? When they left for the day, earlier even than he was expected in court? When they were gone all day and he was gone all evening, would he ever see them?

He reached out to touch Noctis' hair and resettle his blankets.

They didn't have to go  _away_ to school, surely. It would be a simple task to hire tutors and give them a far better education than they would have anywhere in the city. Then they would be present all day. Whenever he had a spare moment he could come and see them; they would be right here waiting for him.

Right up until they grew up and tired of waiting for a father who never came home when he said he would.

"Forgive me, Reina, my dear." He smoothed her hair back and brushed a finger over her silken cheek. "I  _did_ come as soon as I was able."

But that didn't matter to a two year old. As far as she knew, he had never returned. How many more promises to her would he break before she was old enough to count them? How many after she started counting would it take before she stopped believing him?

He sighed, tucked the blankets up to her shoulders, and stepped away. His eyes caught on the nurse, who was sitting on the very edge of her chair and watching him for any sign that she should stand up, again.

"Forgive me," he said, keeping his voice low, "But I cannot recall your name."

"Jenet, Your Majesty." She rocked on the edge of the seat, clutching the fabric as she tried to decide whether an introduction required her to be on her feet.

"Well, Jenet. Thank you for watching over them."

"Oh! Yes. Of course, Your Majesty."

Had Crea ever been so nervous around him? Surely she must have been, two years ago.

"Goodnight." He gave her a smile and a nod, which she returned only belatedly, and left his children to their rest.

 _Sweet dreams, my dearest ones_.


	2. Grief

Aulea had been gone for two years, now. Regis' rooms were still too quiet without another person; he still woke in the mornings expecting to see her. Some days it was easier. Some days it felt just as insurmountable as it had been in those first months. On the worst days, Regis dragged himself out of bed and went looking for someone to beat some sense into him. Cor was the best for that.

The sun was still hanging below the horizon, just beginning to throw a pale light across the sky. The twins were still asleep, but when he knocked on Cor's door, Cor answered already prepared to leave. He never did seem to sleep; he had been that way for as long as Regis had known him. When he was fifteen he was still the last to fall asleep and the first to wake. A soldier through and through. Now he was marshal.

He did not ask why Regis was standing outside his door at five in the morning. All he said was: "Three miles around the grounds; flag posts in the garden are about the right height for pull-ups: twenty reps; eighty push-ups; a hundred and fifteen crunches." He reached behind the door and grabbed a second water bottle, which he pushed into Regis' hands. "You get through that and I guarantee you will stop thinking."

"Do you also guarantee I will be able to get out of bed tomorrow morning?"

"No."

Well, perhaps he would be too sore to think, tomorrow. Or he would be dead, which was a real possibility whenever one let Cor dictate the workout regime.

They ran. It was a chill morning with autumn well on the way and dark clouds blowing in from the north. Overhead, the Wall made even storm clouds look colorful and painted in transparent, shining blues and violets. The path that Cor chose wove through the ground, cut across the gardens, and looped back around. He could have done the whole thing in half the time they spent, but he held back to urge Regis on—or at least to make sure he never stopped.

Gods, it was harder to run than it had been five years ago. Ten years ago he might have kept up with Cor; now he had about as much chance of that as he had of fixing relations with Accordo without lifting a finger.

Somehow he made it the full three miles. Cor was right. He already couldn't think through the sound of blood rushing in his ears as he fought to catch his breath.

And  _that_ was what Cor called a warm-up.

The 'flagpoles' were actually banner poles, which, in hindsight, made more sense, but Regis had little space for thought at that precise moment.

"Twenty." Cor leaned against the pole and nodded up toward the cross bar.

"I do not suppose you brought a step ladder?"

Cor only stared at him, deadpan.

Yes, that was more or less what he had expected. He could just reach it if he jumped and, once up, he could just about convince his muscles to haul him up until his chin reached the bar.

Cor did the same on the opposite side and he set a steady pace, never pausing nor faltering. Regis managed one for every two Cor did and Cor—Regis found—managed  _more_ than twenty. Twenty-four, perhaps? He had lost count by that time.

It only got worse from there. Had he ever been able to do eighty push-ups? Perhaps when he was twenty—even then, he never had been nearly as enthusiastic about this sort of thing as Cor was. Meanwhile, Cor had been running circles around them when he was fifteen. The energy of youth, Clarus had told him. Ten years later he was still doing it.

Cor, of course, met his own quota for the morning. Gods, Regis hoped he didn't do this every day. Regis managed closer to a quarter of the push-ups and roughly half the crunches. And while he was lying on his back in the garden path, staring up at the sky and thinking how wonderfully comfortable gravel was, Clarus found him.

"Trying to keep up with the youth will only disappoint you." Clarus stood over him so that his face was just in Regis' line of vision.

"I have it on good authority that I will feel nothing but pain for the next week," Regis said.

" _That,_ at least, is probably true," Clarus said. To Cor, he added, "What  _exactly_ did you do to him?"

Cor was on his feet, still, dragging a clean towel over the back of his neck. "Same test the new recruits go through."

"You gave the  _king_  a  _Crownsguard_ physical fitness test?!"

"He failed," Cor said.

Clarus shook his head and ran his hands over his shaved head. "I regret to inform you, Your Majesty, that you are  _not_ fit to join the Crownsguard."

"Good," Regis said. The gravel wasn't so comfortable, anymore. Also, his left calf was beginning to cramp up. "Oh  _Gods_ —I believe I shall die here."

"You don't get to die until you have an heir who is old enough to take the throne." Clarus offered him a hand.

Regis groaned.

It took both Clarus and Cor to haul him back to his feet. Once he was there, Cor berated him for not stretching. He did that—under close supervision—and then they walked back up to the Citadel together.

"Who  _does_ take the throne?" Cor asked as they walked.

"Why? Are you planning regicide?" Regis asked.

Cor gave him a characteristically stony look. He had a sense of humor  _somewhere_ ; usually he kept it locked up in the bottom of his sock drawer or some other similarly disused place.

"Officially there is no heir," Clarus said. "Not until one of them is declared Crown Prince or Princess; there is no law written on the matter of succession in the case of twins, so it is left down to the reigning monarch to declare his or her heir. Barring that, it falls to the council to choose one."

"It is not a choice I relish the thought of," Regis said.

They were  _two years old_ , for Bahamut's sake! How could he possibly look at them and choose which one would bear the burden of all of Lucis, the crystal, and the ring? That child would grow up to find that Regis had given him—or her—an impossible weight to bear. The other would grow up believing he hadn't thought he or she could bear it.

"Well," Clarus said. "At least for now, there is no pressing need to make it."

And hopefully it would remain that way for quite some time.

As the summer faded into fall, Regis' morning runs with Cor took them beneath trees that had traded green leaves for bright reds and yellows. The Citadel gardens burst into color, giving one last hurrah before the bleak of winter took over and turned the world cold and grey. It was an act of defiance that Regis heartily supported, though most often he hadn't the time to appreciate it. Either he was occupied with matters of court and kingdom, and went all day without looking out a single window, or he was too focused on keeping his legs moving, as Cor ran circles around him, to think about how beautiful the trees were.

He sought Cor's company more and more often as the leaves dropped from the trees and left branches bleak and bare. It was always more difficult around December. It shouldn't have been; she wasn't any more or less gone on the anniversary of her death than she was any other day of the year, but the sting of pain was worse.

It seemed more than two years that she had been gone. At the same time, it seemed unfathomable that he had survived two years without her.

He took the twins down to the mausoleum to visit her. They were still too small to understand what death meant, or that they didn't have a mother. But they understood the heaviness that filled the cold stone chamber when they all stood before her plaque. Even two year olds could feel solemnity.

He held them both in his arms, one on each hip. He told them about their mother and, whether they understood or not, they listened. Even Noctis, who couldn't sit still for two consecutive minutes, rested his head on Regis' shoulder and didn't make a sound until the very end. Then he said "Mama" and Regis lost what little control he still had. For a little longer they stood while the tears flowed steadily down his cheeks.

If only she could have met them— _truly_ met them—and known the sweet and troublesome little humans that they were.

They walked back to the Citadel together. By then Noctis wanted down, so Regis let him. He stomped in every puddle and picked up handfuls of muddy leaves while Regis dried his eyes and tried to regain some semblance of composure. By the time they were back upstairs he had succeeded—or thought he had. But the way that Crea quietly dismissed the rest of her staff to leave him alone with his children told him otherwise.

She would have left, too—or at least stepped outside to be called for—but he held her back with a word.

For a little while they just sat, like they had when the twins were babies, still. Noctis emptied bins of toys onto the floor and amused himself. Reina lay against Regis' chest and gave no indication of wanting to join her brother.

"I will never be accustomed to this emptiness," he said, after what must have been a full hour of silence between them.

"You will." When he looked askance at her, she gave him a melancholy smile. "I didn't say it would go away. But eventually you'll get used to having a hole there."

That was December. By January, with the coming of his 32nd birthday, the council was urging him to throw a ball in celebration. The idea was abhorrent to him. Not only was it a pointless effort, but Regis could not bear the thought of sitting at the head table, raised on a dias, while two hundred people stared at him. Not that it had ever been precisely his idea of fun, but at least it had been tolerable while Aulea was still alive. And now…

Well. Now he would only ever sit at that table and see her ghost sitting across from him.

But, as was so often the case, what the council truly wanted was  _not_ what they asked for, but what was left unsaid, between the lines. He discovered this after council had concluded for the evening, when Hamon followed him out. That, in and of itself, was an uncommon occurrence.  _Someone_ always accompanied him out of council, but it was never Hamon.

"King Regis." He fell into step on Regis' right, while Clarus walked on the left. "I rarely feel the need to explain matters of the court to Your Majesty, but—and do correct me if I am wrong—I believe you have missed the point of today's discussion."

Regis glanced at him sideways, but said nothing.

"The others are unlikely to come out and say it, and I suspect Master Clarus—who has  _not_ missed the point—will allow you to go on missing it."

This time Regis glanced at Clarus; it was enough to tell him that Hamon's words were true.

"Come to the point, Hamon."

He did. "The ball means nothing to them. What they want—and the idea is not without merit—is for you to see and be seen by your people. That is meant to lead—so some hope—to a fortuitous encounter, fraternization, and subsequent filling of a royal vacancy." He pause to note the stunned and horrified look on Regis' face, then he reduced the whole thing to a few words: "They want you to get married, again, Your Majesty."

Twelve people at that table, and Hamon was the only one who would ever dare speak those words aloud. Had it been anything else, Clarus would have. But Hamon was right: this, Clarus would try to spare him.

Regis had stopped walking. He didn't realize he had done so until Hamon and Clarus  _also_ stopped and turned to look at him. He clenched his fists at his sides to keep his hands from shaking.

"My wife," he said, voice dangerously quiet. "Has only just left this world."

"Two years, Your Majesty," Hamon said, his tone bland. "She isn't coming back. Think about it."

And he turned and continued down the hallway, as if he hadn't said anything at all. Regis stood there, half stunned, half furious, until Clarus retraced his steps and put his hand on Regis' shoulder.

"Come on," Clarus said. "Let's go upstairs."

They didn't speak again until they were. Regis' brain was looping the same few arguments over and over again: two years sounded like a great deal more time than it was—how could they expect him to even  _think_ about remarrying? Even if it had been five, even if it had been fifty, he would never be ready.

When he was closed behind the doors of his private chambers with Clarus, seated in his sitting room with a stiff drink in his hand—and only then—did he speak.

"I shall  _never_ replace Aulea."

Clarus gave him a tight, but sympathetic, smile. He leaned forward to pat Regis' knee. "I know."

"How could they expect that of me? Do they not know what I went through? What I am  _still_ going through?"

Clarus sighed and shook his head. "No. But we did take pains to keep much of that behind closed doors, you'll recall."

Regis took a sip of his drink, and ran his hand over his face and through his hair. "It seems impossible that something so ubiquitous in my life is so unclear to them. But that is not the point—even if I was not still sick with mourning I could still never do it. Aulea was… she was everything. And I shall never have that back again."

They sat in silence for a moment longer. Regis stared out the window, where the shimmer of the Wall lit the night sky over Insomnia.

"Perhaps… you shouldn't think of it as replacing her."

Regis looked sharply at Clarus. Was he honestly entertaining this idea?

Clarus held up his hand. "Now before you object, let me explain. First of all, no— _of course_  I don't support any motion to force you to remarry for the sake of appearances. But I do wish you the best—and with that, as much happiness as you are able to take from this world. Aulea was magnificent—we all loved her; you know that. But if—and only  _if_ —you found yourself craving companionship once more… I believe you could safely pursue that without ever sullying her memory or  _replacing_ her."

"And if I never wish to?"

Clarus sighed. "Then you never need to. But I should like to see you less lonely."

At council the following evening, Regis made it clear that he understood their implications and would have none of them. He shut the idea down before anyone could form any arguments. No birthday balls would be held in his home. Not this year. Perhaps never again. And they were, under no circumstances, to consider possible marriage candidates for him when he had no intention of following such a thing. The seat of the queen may have been vacant, but it was not open to be filled.

The snows came, blanketing Insomnia in cold, wet, ice. The trees turned to skeletal hands clawing up from the earth toward the sky. And the  _winds_! It seemed every time someone opened a door or a window they blasted through the whole Citadel, scattering sleet and ice everywhere. Whatever color autumn had brought was buried beneath the snow. Insomnia was monotone: the earth, the sky, the buildings—all shades of grey and white.

Cor convinced him to go out in that only once; after that their morning runs were inside. Whyever would anyone wish to be outside in the snow when they could just as easily be inside—warm and dry? The whole damn season was a waste of space in the year. If he could have gone to sleep in November and woke in April, he would have. The hibernating animals were the wise ones.

One thing—and one thing only—would take Regis outside for an extended period of time and that was the simple wonder of his children. When the skies were clear—indeed, often even when they were not—Crea and one of her staff would take the twins out to play in the snow. The pair of them romped and stomped and ate fistfuls of snow until it was melting all over and dripping down the collars of their coats and  _still_ they went on.

"I do not understand how anyone—child or adult—could greet this season with such enthusiasm." Regis pulled his scarf up and tucked his hands into his pockets.

"Perhaps because they have no bitter memories to associate with it." Crea scooped up a handful of snow and tossed it at Reina, who tried to catch it and ended up sitting in the snow instead.

"I have no bitter memories," Regis said. "Save those of frozen fingers."

She straightened, looking at him. "No?"

He opened his mouth to confirm, and then stopped himself. Winter was a miserable season. But it wasn't just because of the cold.

It was because winters always made Aulea more sick. Months upon months of her confined to bed, coughing with a deep rattle in her chest, drinking noxious tea to help with the pain and let her sleep. She had hated being trapped inside as much as he had hated watching it. She had always grown restless and frustrated in the thick of it—trading playful mischief for irritation.

In the end, it had taken her from him.

Crea gripped his arm and gave him a tight smile. How was it she understood him better than he did, himself?

"You have been spending too much time with Weskham," Regis said.

Crea laughed. "Weskham is an extraordinary man. I could do with more of his time."

"Could you?" Regis asked, more cross than he had any right being.

She gave him a curious look. Regis broke it, looking back toward his children.

Reina and Noctis wrestled in the snow. When they had been younger, he had eagerly awaited the day when they would play and engage with each other. That had come some time ago—and it was every bit as rewarding as he had hoped. Yes, perhaps they screamed at each other over the noisy frog toy, sometimes, but they also shared spontaneous hugs, lay in the middle of the floor together, and conversed in some hybridized language that only twins could understand, but to which every response was always 'kay!' Crea said they had even been caught climbing into each other's beds at night.

That was a bond they would need in years to come. Of course, they would have other friends; they would have a retinue not unlike Regis', and he hoped for the same strength of friendship between each of them. But regardless of all that, they would always have each other.

It wasn't the only time that winter that Regis spent standing out in the snow for his children. Reina loved it even more than Noctis did; she would have been entertained for hours if only Regis would hold her and let her pick up handful after handful of snow to eat. It still didn't make any sense to him and he was permanently convinced that she was going to catch cold if they stayed out too long, but it never seemed to bother her. Not that they never got sick, but that was a different mess altogether.

More than once, while the blizzard was blowing outside and the twins were confined to the upper levels of the Citadel and kept indoors, Regis caught Reina standing with her hands flat against a window and her little nose pressed against the glass; she would stare at the snow until he breath fogged up the glass and then back away and glare at it with as much disapproval as she could muster until it disappeared. And repeat. That almost made the winter worth it.


	3. Deliberation

Even with the new found joy of watching his children appreciate the snow, Regis was relieved when spring finally came and thawed the world once more. The Chionodoxa in the garden sprouted through the melting snow—tiny stars of purple amidst the endless white—and brought the first speck of color back to the world. He tried to smile at that, but it still hurt too much. Instead he picked a bundle of them and brought them to Aulea in the mausoleum. When he took Reina and Noctis for walks in the garden, he told them stories about their mother and her favorite flower.

The situation in Accordo had not improved over the winter—whether that was good news or ill news was still a contentious topic during council meetings. Felice supported the immediate dispatch of diplomatic representatives to Altissia to extend the olive branch. Aldebrand—who had accepted that he stood on a melting iceberg—now maintained that they should wait and see where the building momentum took the people of Accordo before making any decision.

One thing was for certain: the notion of a government by and for Accordo's own people was certainly growing in popularity. It seemed with every new report of protests and rallies, the estimated size of the crowds grew. Winter rains had pushed Altissia's people indoors more often than not but, with the change of the seasons, the protests returned in force. Regis spent that spring listening to reports form their intelligence officers in Accordo and Lucis bided its time.

The numbers grew, week by week and month by month. Thus far, Niflheim seemed to have done little to combat the issue, save to post more Magitek soldiers outside the manor house that served as the seat of their government. Either they were waiting for matters to turn violent, or they were expecting the flames to burn themselves out. Both seemed absurd, to Regis. He knew from too much experience that angry citizens very seldom grew  _less_ angry when left unchecked.

At last, one morning in May, the council made a conclusive decision.

"Sergeant Elshett puts the most recent estimates at one hundred thousand in the streets," Clarus reported. "The numbers, she admits, are rough, given that protesters are spread throughout many streets. Even now, further talk of an even more considerable rally to take place three months from now is sweeping through the city."

"Surely one hundred thousand people is sufficient support for their cause," Felice said. "Not even  _you_ can deny that, Master Aldebrand."

Aldebrand shifted in his seat. "A third of the population of Altissia is nothing to scoff at, certainly. I will but once more state my belief that we would be wise to stay well and truly out of this mess until we have any hope of winning; as it stands, Niflheim has but to lower its boot and crush this, and no support that Lucis could offer would change that fact. However, as His Majesty and the majority of this council has expressed a desire to treat with Accordo, I suppose this time may be as good as it gets."

With Aldebrand's approval—grudging as it was—came the concession of those who stood behind him: Master Etgar, who represented the corporate side of Lucis, and Master Hadrian both folded under the otherwise unanimous agreement of the council. But that was only one part.

"Now that we have agreed upon the simplest part of this affair," Hamon said, "Might I remind the council that we, as of yet, have no plan on how—or to whom—we might make such friendly overtures?"

Indeed, they had spent so much time arguing over whether or not to propose a treaty with Accordo that they had yet to discuss what that might even entail. Accordo was, officially, controlled by Niflheim. What they needed was someone on the side of the people to approach with their proposal and alliance.

"Surely there must be someone we can contact," Felice said. "Who organizes their protests? Who rallies their people?"

"It is difficult to pinpoint the source of such a thing, in this day and age." Clarus sat forward in his chair. "Information spreads like a plague—to trace the web of text messages back to the center would be impossible without a much greater presence in the city."

"Then who stands at the forefront once they have assembled?" Felice asked. "Your operatives claim that demands have been issued to the imperial officials—who has delivered them?"

Even that information was not so clear-cut as it should have been. When their meeting adjourned two hours later, they were no closer to a solution. They had run through every piece of information that Clarus had ten times over; it seemed that there were multiple possibilities in that there were factions, of sorts, forming within the city. Different demographics were rallying behind different people and thus far they had no unifying leader. It was as if no one wished to step forward and take responsibility for this mess. That was a sentiment Regis could understand. It would take either a fool or a godsend to willingly vie for command of a country preparing for a rebellion. The former they wished to avoid. The latter was impossibly rare.

And so Regis left council feeling—as he often did—that very little had been accomplished that day. He still had half a dozen new proposals to read through and approve—or not—by the morning, but he stepped aside from his work, anyway. If he did not take one single moment in all this mess he would lose his mind.

A few from the council trailed in his wake, perhaps hoping that if they caught him outside of the council room that they would have his ear for themselves. Or perhaps they were hoping to ingratiate themselves to him by being available for any tasks he might have. One among them might have genuinely been interested in said task. Whatever their reasons were, Regis had nothing for them—neither the time nor the energy to humor them.

Clarus shooed them away.

Dear Clarus. If Regis hadn't known better, he would have claimed Clarus could read minds. As it stood, he knew that there was only  _one_ mind that Clarus could read. That was why he was Royal Adviser, King's Shield, and Commander of the Crownsguard.

"Are you returning upstairs?" Clarus asked, once they were alone—or as alone as Regis ever was, within the Citadel.

"Yes. I promised I would make it in time for dinner, for once." He had very nearly broken that promise. He was going to have to learn to stop making promises when he couldn't guarantee seeing them through. They were old enough to remember, now. Soon they would be old enough to hold it against him, as well.

"Don't forget to have some, yourself," Clarus said.

"My dear Clarus, you speak as if I cannot take care of myself."

Clarus gave him a very clear 'and…?' look. Regis chose not to respond to the unasked question.

They separated at the elevator, bidding their goodnights so that Clarus could return to his own family. Then Regis stepped into the lift, which would take him all the way to the upper levels, and pressed his thumb to the sensor to unlock said levels. In a few more years they would have to add another pair of prints to the system—though it was terrifying to think that Noctis and Reina were but a few years away from so much autonomy. But they would still have their nanny, of course. Yes. They would still have Crea.

Only a handful of people had the ability to take  _themselves_ up to the royal chambers on top of the Citadel. In addition to Regis, that included Clarus, Cor, Weskham, Crea, and Regis' most trusted attendant, Avunculus Scientia. For everyone else, the elevator simply would not rise so high. Every Crownsguard was admitted by Clarus or Cor, ever servant by Avun, and every nurse by Crea. It was as close as they could possibly get to having a private residence inside the Capitol building.

Not that Regis had much concept of what a private residence was like, in any case. He understood  _in theory_ , of course. Clarus, for instance, had a home in the city—and always had, growing up, as well. And Aulea had lived in a normal house with only serving staff and no Crownsguards or court attached. While it was still peculiar to him, trying to detach the two things—'home' was and always had been a place of perpetual people and activity—he understood that it  _was_ separate for most other people in Insomnia.

He  _did_ make it to the nursery in time for dinner. More or less. As expected, Crea was there with one other nurse, trying to coerce Noctis into eating his dinner, while Reina did so of her own accord. What he had  _not_ expected was to find Weskham there, as well, talking to Crea. Regis entered too late to hear what had been said, but early enough to hear her laugh in response.

"Weskham. What business brings you here?" It came out a little more sharply than he had intended.

Either Weskham didn't notice, or he somehow expected it.

"Your Majesty." He bowed to Regis and straightened with his answer prepared—without surprise or hurt. "I was merely ensuring that Miss Viniculum has the nursery stocked to her liking."

"And have you done so?"

"I believe I have." Weskham glanced at Crea, still unperturbed.

"Yes, thank you, Wes!" Crea granted him one of her award-winning smiles.

Wes? Since when did she call him  _Wes?_  In all of Insomnia, Regis counted a grand total of three people who had ever used that name for him. Somehow he managed to be so stiffly formal that everyone else called him  _Master Armaugh_.

"Then I will take my leave. Goodnight, Miss Viniculum—Prince Noctis, Princess Reina—Your Majesty." He bowed thrice before making good on his words.

Regis stared after him a moment.

' _Wes'_? Why did it bother him so?

"Thank you, Jenet—I believe I can manage with His Majesty's help, if you would like to tidy up the other room," Crea said.

The nurse excused herself with a hasty bow and practically fled to the adjoining room. Regis turned to find Crea looking at him curiously.

"Is something wrong, Your Majesty?"

She called Weskham  _Wes_ , and him  _Your Majesty_. No matter how many times he asked her to call him Regis, they came back to this.

"Does he come often?" Regis asked.

"Regularly," Crea said carefully. "He makes sure we're stocked up on baby food and diapers and everything else, and he helps with any necessary staff changes. Sometimes he comes merely to check in—I don't know how he does it, but he always has just the right bit of advice when I need it."

The first two were in the job description. The third… debatably. Yes,  _technically_ Crea was Citadel staff and Weskham was head of staff, but did that really include—?

"I see," was all Regis said.

Crea pursed her lips like she was stopping herself from asking more and she turned back to the kitchen table. Noctis and Reina had graduated from highchairs. They now sat at the table on booster seats, using real plates and silverware—or, more accurately,  _plasticware_. Regis took a seat beside Noctis, who was having more fun playing with his rice than eating it.

"Did you eat?" Crea stood at the stove, serving another bowl.

"Not yet," Regis said.

"Would you like to?" She asked. "I will warn you, it only comes with one course and there are only two sizes of fork—and one size is plastic."

Clarus  _had_ told him to eat. This, at least, saved him a trip.

"I should love to—but I  _would_ prefer the metal fork."

It turned out she had at least two metal forks; she provided him with one, along with his bowl, and herself with another. It was good, simple food—rice and vegetables and some sort of flakey, white fish—even Clarus would have approved.

"Did you make this?" Regis asked.

Crea laughed. "If I had time to cook, you would undoubtedly have too many nursemaids in your employ."

"Ah. Well," said Regis, chagrined. "Evidently, I know very little about the goings on in my own home."

"You have more important things to worry about," she said.

They finished the meal in companionable conversation. Crea filled it with the stories she knew he wanted to hear: Noctis had willingly shared a toy with Reina and hadn't even complained when she walked away with it; one of the day nurses had amused the whole nursery staff by introducing the twins to tongue twisters—they were just at the right age, given that they repeated anything that was said around them; Reina had walked around all day with untied shoes because she refused to let anyone tie them for her, even though she couldn't to it herself; and Noctis was still testing the boundaries of  _precisely_ what happened when he disobeyed instructions. Throughout, Crea prompted the twins to pitch in—which they did, but only so far as to confirm or deny whatever she said.

It was so comfortable that Regis forgot to worry about everything else that had been on his mind that evening. He forgot about Accordo and the endless discussion that would begin anew in the morning. He forgot about the pages upon pages he would have to read through once he left the nursery. He forgot about the unexpected encounter with Weskham—or why it bothered him at all.

He felt  _at home_ , as he so seldom did, these days. This was what it should have been—returning after a long day to have his concerns soothed away by family, and hear of all their exploits from the day. She told stories so vividly that he no longer felt that he had missed a single thing.

This was what it should have been. If Aulea was still alive.

He stayed well after dinner, unable to pull himself away. Crea put him to work, and he delighted in the simple tasks that were mundane and trying for so many other parents. He helped to give the twins a bath. They splashed each other and him mercilessly, giggling all the while; he came out the other side looking as if he had walked through a heavy rain. They came out the other side looking sweet and cherubic, bundled in soft pajamas with their hair standing up in wet spikes. He cuddled them fiercely, unwilling to put them in their own beds. Crea took pity on him and handed him a book while they were both curled up in his arms; it was, she told him, Reina's favorite story.

And so they fell asleep there, listening to the tale of Chika the Chocobo and her miraculous, magic tailfeathers, and holding hands across Regis' chest. Much as he wanted to stay all night, he had already spent too much time. He would be up well past midnight, at this rate.

But he couldn't bear to separate them. So he lifted them both gingerly into one bed—they stirred, but only to snuggled closer together in what must have been the most uncomfortable position possible. But they slept on. Regis pulled the blankets up to their shoulders, kissed them both goodnight, and pulled himself away.

Crea followed him to the door. "Goodnight, Your Majesty."

"If only." Regis smiled ruefully. "I go first to decide the viability of the most recent batch of proposals to reach my desk."

"Sounds thrilling."

"Oh, utterly riveting." He gave her one last smile before heading down the hall.

"Don't stay up too late," she called after him. "Regis."

He paused at that, turning back to her. Though he had just been bemoaning the fact that she never called him Regis, earlier in the night, he couldn't think of a wry remark to add. So he merely bowed his head in concession. "I shall do my best."

He left, feeling much lighter than when he had come, and just about prepared to face a full night of work. He didn't turn back again, but if he had, he would have seen her standing in the doorway, staring after him until he was out of sight.

It was a long night. The pile of papers on his desk was taller than he remembered it being, but he worked determinedly through them as the fire in his office hearth worked through the full supply of wood. More than once a servant came in to tend to it and refill the brass bucket nearby with thick logs. With every bill, signed or rejected, it grew a little more difficult to read the next. Nevertheless, he reached the end of the stack. When he did, it was with the certainty that not even his best had been enough; he had certainly stayed up too late.

But he did not, as he might have done two years before, fall asleep at his desk or give up the fight for consciousness on his chaise lounge. He returned to his rooms, pausing only briefly outside the silent nursery on his way, and put himself to bed. In his very empty bed. Not even the fire could warm that coldness.

In spite of the hour at which he retired, Regis woke near dawn the following morning and rose to join Cor for his regularized morning torture—he was a few minutes late, because he couldn't help but stop at the nursery while they were awake. And then the day began in full.

Such was the steady routine. If not of his day, then of his week—he woke with the sun, invited Cor to make him feel painfully old, showered and changed in time to hold court, and spent the remainder of the daylight hours (and many of the moonlight ones, as well) either amongst the council, the court, or at his desk. Those nights when he had enough time to share an evening and a bedtime story with his children were the brightest, and he savored them when they came.

The council deliberated, still, over the Accordo situation. They waited for further information from Clarus' operatives, and then they waited longer. Had there been any clear course of action, Regis would have long since put an end to the debate and seen it done. But as of yet, they did not have enough information to act. The fact was that no one knew who was in charge. Indeed, no one seemed to be in charge at all—which had brought up an entirely different argument altogether: if Accordo's revolution had no organization and therefore no hope of success, would it really behoove Lucis to offer an alliance?

It was a frequent topic of discussion, both inside and outside the council chamber. In fact, it was becoming so prevalent that Regis had entirely forbidden the subject in court. It should not have been necessary for him to do so; these were conversations meant to happen behind closed doors and everyone knew that. But they were also growing restive.

The problem ran deeper than the surface question—should they or should they not strike a bargain with Accordo?—and struck at the heart of so many brewing fears in Lucis: Niflheim. The hundred-year war (more than that, really, but 'the hundred-year war' sounded better than 'the hundred-thirty-three-year war') had lulls, but no end. That the empire had not been attacking  _recently_  did not mean they would not do so  _soon_. And reports from the outskirts implied they would.

Some of the council hoped that the trouble in Accordo would draw Niflheim's attention away from Lucis—some even wished to fan the flames, so to speak, to that end. Others feared retribution, should Lucis try its hand in assisting Accordo. Still others were hopeful that an alliance would allow both nations to turn the tide on Niflheim and end the war for good. Regis was not so hopeful at that.

And so they waited. And they listened. And on the long nights, when council stretched well past bedtime and eliminated any possibility for bedtime stories, Regis and Clarus sat over a glass of wine and stared at each other—usually in silence.

"Perhaps the whole thing will blow over and we ought simply keep our noses out," Clarus suggested, without conviction.

"Humankind is hardwired to take measured risks, my friend," said Weskham. "A nation that has stopped is a nation that has lost hope."

"But not if we have weighed the outcomes and found the benefits lacking," Clarus said.

"Perhaps."

Regis stirred in his chair. "You support the alliance, then?"

Weskham spread his hands and smiled genially. "I am but a Steward, Sire. I am  _sure_ I know little of politics."

"Don't give me that chocoboshit," Clarus said. "You know  _people_."

"Speak," Regis said. "Tell us your thoughts on the matter."

"Both sides are correct," Weskham began slowly, "An alliance with Accordo would undoubtedly benefit us both, even if not in the blatant way that some hope. But it would also be dangerous—perhaps deadly—to become embroiled in this conflict. If we are to help Accordo regain control, it must be  _without_ Niflheim's knowledge. That would require our people working from within."

"We have discussed  _that_ to death," Clarus said. "We have no one to support from within. Nothing to do even if we  _could_ get inside the country unnoticed."

"There I might be of help," Weskham said. "You may recall that, when last we visited Altissia, I met a young woman of political inclination."

"Yes…" Clarus said. "I seem to recall you had a few lengthy  _discussions_ with her."

Weskham gave him a reproachful look. Regis hid his smile behind his wine glass.

"We kept in touch, intermittently," Weskham continued, as if Clarus had not interjected. "Last I heard, she was not only still politically minded, but well-informed and well-versed in matters of her nation."

"And? She has some connections within this rebellion of theirs?" Clarus asked.

"I have not heard from her in some time." Weskham leaned forward and poured himself a fresh glass of wine from the open bottle on the coffee table. "Your operatives might look her up: Camelia Claustra, is her name. If there is anything left in her of the woman I knew, she'll be in the thick of things."


	4. Theatre

Weskham's suggestion that they contact his friend in Altissia was the stone that started the landslide. With that one piece of information, those of the council who were pro-Accordo pushed ever harder for a diplomatic party to be sent to Altissia. Now, they argued, there was someone they could potentially treat with. It took the better part of the next two weeks and half a dozen reports from Clarus' operatives to convince the others. But once they had confirmed that there was, indeed, such a woman as Camelia Claustra in Altissia and, furthermore, that she was one of the names already listed as a candidate with leadership potential, the other half of the council caved.

At the very least, they all agreed that some sort of attache should be sent with a message of friendship and pending alliance. From there it was all discussion on whom should be sent and what matter of message they would bear. In the end, the council put forward two diplomats from the nobility and a message was drafted but not penned—to be delivered only verbally. They were, after all, being sent into an active Niflheim territory; better that there be nothing concrete to tie them back to Lucis, if the worst should come to pass.

After that, it was a game of waiting. The trip to Altissia wasn't far—a few hours by boat from the coast—but the technicalities of meeting with someone who had no idea they were looking for her could take some time. It did, at least, mean a few nights of shorter council meetings, as debates were reduced to the usual sort—which infrastructure repairs they had the funds for and what to do about indications of Niflheim activity at the outskirts.

Regis spent the extra time in the same place he spent all of his extra time: in the nursery. Or wherever else he could find his children. The regularity made his nights sweeter. It was difficult to believe that they were nearly three years old, now, but he helped switch their cribs for real beds himself. The change only made it easier for them to abandon their own beds and crawl in with each other; as far as Regis was concerned, this wasn't a detriment at all.

"What will you do for their birthday?" Crea asked him over dinner, on one such night.

"Dada, dada!" Noctis said.

"Yes, little prince?"

"It's my birthday!"

"Not  _quite_ yet, little prince," Regis said, unable to keep the grin from his face.

Crea shook her head, but her eyes crinkled with amusement.

"I had not given it much thought, to be truthful," Regis said. "What would you like to do for your birthday, Noctis?"

"CAKE!"

"Yes. Well. That is one thing that might be done," Regis said. "And you, Reina."

Reina looked up at her name and, finding his eyes on her, beamed up at him. If she never grew out of that, he would die a happy man. Regis smoothed his hand over her hair and leaned over to kiss her forehead. Perhaps she had no strong opinions on the topic of birthdays or cakes, but she certainly had the sweetest smiles for him whenever he sat beside her.

"Noct! When is your birthday?" Crea asked.

"It's my birthday!" He bounded in his booster seat.

"Not  _quite_ the show of academic merit I was hoping to show your father," she said. "When is your birthday? How many weeks?"

Noctis put down his fork and stared at his hands with great concentration. He counted out fingers, his little tongue poking through between his teeth as he did so. When he had three fingers out, he held them up to Crea.

"Three weeks! Very good, Noctis!"

He would never grow tired of that, either. They might learn a myriad new things, but he would still be amazed that they could count.

Alright, he might get over it when they  _looked_ old enough to count. But they were only three! Crea assured him this was normal. Regis assured everyone else that his children were geniuses. And, given that they were such cultured little academics, he was struck by an idea.

"They have not, I believe, been to the theatre, before?" Regis asked.

"To see a play? No. I daresay they would be bored."

"Ah, but you forget—there are childrens' programs. It used to be that the Lucis Theatre had an early-evening show for youngsters at least once a week. Do they still?"

Crea gave him a blank look. "Your Majesty has forgotten that I grew up in the lower city. The extent of my knowledge on the Lucis Theatre is that the outside of the building is lovely."

"You have never been inside?" He asked, incredulous.

"Not everyone has the means to afford such things. No, I've never been inside," she added, because he was still staring at her.

"Have things changed so?" Regis asked. "As I recall, they were only a few hundred gil."

" _Only_ a few hundred gil!?" She had not, so far as he could remember, ever raised her voice before. "How can you be so out of touch?"

Regis was quite as stunned as Reina and Noctis were. He was, in fact, much too surprised to even take issue with her tone—though he would have accepted the same from very few people.

Was a few hundred gil really worth that much?

"Do you know how much money you pay me?" Crea asked.

_That_ was Weskham's job. Hadn't she told him just a month ago that he had more important things to concern himself with than his household affairs.

"I do not," he said tightly.

"A  _few hundred gil_ ," she said. "Per  _week_."

"Well, if you wish to go to the theatre—"

"That is  _not_ the point."

_Now_ he took issue with her tone. He also took issue with being interrupted.

He rose from his chair and dropped his napkin on the table beside his plate. "If the terms of your employment are insufficient, I have no doubts that Master Armaugh will arrange something more suitable for you. Regardless, you will investigate the possibility of taking the prince and princess to see an age-appropriate show for their birthday."

He knew the exact moment when she remembered whom she was speaking to. The annoyance on her face shifted seamlessly to surprise, then mortification. She dropped her gaze to the table and scrambled to her feet so that she could bow to him. She didn't straighten again.

"As Your Majesty wishes." She hadn't sounded so small since the first night he startled her in the nursery, almost three years ago.

It wasn't until later, after he had bidden his children goodnight and walked away, leaving her with nothing to cover the sharp words, that he truly registered how badly he had botched all three of those years. He spent so much time bemoaning the fact that she called him 'Majesty' instead of 'Regis.' And then he took his station and flung it in her face, demanding that she bow before him.

By then she had left for the night.

He could only hope that she would return in the morning.

He slept only fitfully, that night, as his mind ran on repeat all the things he had said and ought to have said, instead. By the time dawn came the next morning, he had long since given up the fight. In spite of all that, he was still struggling to find the words to say to her when he left his rooms.

Crea wasn't in the nursery. It was early, yet. Noctis was still asleep, but Reina was sitting bleary-eyed in Jenet's lap. She brightened when she caught sight of him, holding out both her hands. And so he sat with them, letting Reina cuddle against his chest while she woke fully. When Noctis roused, all three of them sat in one chair, wordless and more or less motionless until the morning shift arrived.

Crea was with them.

She stopped in the doorway when she saw him, staring for only a moment before she dropped her gaze and mumbled a "Good morning, Your Majesty."

"Good morning." Regis rose and passed the little ones off to their nurses—Reina whined but accepted the change. "Crea—might I have a word?"

"Of course, Your Majesty." She bowed and stepped into the hall with him. He shut the door behind them.

"I must apologize for my behavior last night. I have neither excuse nor explanation for how I acted, but I beg your forgiveness, nevertheless." Not even a full night of guilt could give him a plausible explanation for what had happened. It had been little more than a gut-reaction to being spoken to so casually when so few people would ever dare do so. Was he truly the sort of king who demanded subservience and could accept no less from his servants?

She still wouldn't look at him. She kept her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes on her feet. "No, Your Majesty, you were right. I forgot my place; it won't happen again."

Regis made a sound of frustration. "I spent three years trying to make you forget who I was."

"I know. But I should remember, anyway. We come from different worlds."

"Is it not possible to come from different worlds and still coexist?" Regis stepped forward. "Please look at me, Crea."

She did, but only slowly. Reluctantly. And he wondered if she hadn't been hiding her face because she couldn't stand to look at him at all… or because she did not want him to see the tears on her cheeks. He brushed his fingers over her cheeks, wiping away tears. She didn't pull away from him.

"Everything you have said is true," he said. "I am out of touch… and if I wish to rule Lucis well and fairly, then I cannot afford to be. And so I need someone to remind me how little I understand of life in my own city."

"Your Majesty—"

"Regis,  _please_ ," he corrected.

The ghost of a smile quivered on her lips. "Regis."

It was so easy to forget how young she was. She couldn't have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three, by now. She managed his children so deftly—so wisely—that he could hardly believe it, sometimes. Already she had been through so much. He needed to remember that.

"Will you stay?" He asked.

"Yes…" Her voice quivered, but she said it anyway. Her shoulders quivered, also, when he set his hands there.

"And will you treat me as the foolish old man you know me to be?"

Ah, there it was! The smile that so seldom left her face.

"I don't know about  _that_ ," she said.

"I shall have it printed in your job description," Regis said. "It is in Clarus' that he must put me in my place whenever my head grows too large to fit my crown, but from you I only require that you never take me too seriously."

She laughed and swiped at her eyes. "I'll try."

"Thank you." He considered her a moment before giving in to the impulse to pull her into a hug. She didn't object, though it did take a second before she responded in kind. "I would be quite lost without you, you know."

It wasn't fixed in a day, but it  _was_ fixed. Not mended, as a patch slapped over a hole, but repaired properly. He did not discard the original trouble that had caused problems in the first place, but held onto it and learned from it. He listened and he observed. He watched her, wondering what else he had managed to miss in three years. Sometimes she caught him at it and gave him a curious look and a self-conscious smile.

Days passed. They had one report from the representatives they had sent to Altissia on arrival, but afterward silence followed. A day, perhaps two, were not an unreasonable amount of time to expect some news in. But as they counted past a full week, Regis and the rest of the council grew uneasy.

Not even Clarus' Crownsguard operatives had information to spare on them. Though they had not been meant to meet, it  _was_ expected that the Crownsguard would at least  _see_ the others in some shape or form. Yet they reported nothing of the sort.

Regular council discussion was taken over by hypothesizing and planning for damage-control. Subjects that should, in all fairness, have come up weeks ago were now considered last-minute: What course of action were they to take if their diplomats were caught by Niflheim? Should an armed contingent be sent? That seemed foolish, given the situation. Should the Crownsguards already in place in Altissia put their own positions in danger by searching out information? And how would they even know what had become of them, if not?

In the end they kept the Crownsguards undercover, for fear of endangering more lives. But as one week turned into two, little doubt remained on the council: their diplomats were dead, and along with them went most hopes of an alliance with Accordo.

He had less time, in those weeks, to spend with his children, as well. Most nights he missed them entirely and only arrived in the nursery long after they had fallen asleep and Crea had gone. It did little for his good humor. She took to sending him reports of her own—as she had done in the years before when he had fallen ill and been unable to visit them. Compared to the reports from Altissia, they were refreshing: both twins were now counting to twenty (though sometimes numbers went missing somewhere between ten and fifteen); Crea had taught Reina to sing 'Goodnight Little Chocobo', and she still said 'coco-bo,' but that only seemed to improve the song; and  _someone_ (no one would admit to it) had taught Noctis to say 'actually, octopuses are ornery,' and now he interjected that into every conversation he was or wasn't a part of.

She also sent him a calendar of childrens' programs available at the Lucis Theatre, with August 30th circled in purple ink: it seemed the Crown City Philharmonic was performing the musical story of Petrus and the Coeurl. Though it was unclear what  _his_ schedule would look like at that time, Regis made plans to attend with them.

It seemed half a lifetime since he had something outside of the Citadel to look forward to. Indeed, he could hardly remember the last time he  _had_ gone out. Certainly, he had not gone out on leisure with his children at any time before. That alone was a sobering thought. Three years and he had not taken them out, at all. If Aulea had still been alive, she would never have let it go so long. At least it would be remedied, soon.

And so the date was arranged and dinner plans were made and a box was reserved and Cor was left organizing security for the evening. If not for his ever-stoic facade, Regis might have said that responsibility concerned him greatly. Little wonder why: it was bad enough, Regis had no doubt, trying to keep one king in sight at all times in a crowd, but to add two three-year-olds on top of that was to invite chaos. Cor doubled the guard, then tripled it again. Regis neither objected, nor asked any questions.

When August 30th arrived, Regis spent as much of the day with them as he was able, sharing breakfast before court and dropping in whenever time allowed. Crea had explained to them what would happen for their birthday, and neither twin would stop talking about it all day. Crea merely shook her head and rolled her eyes whenever the conversation devolved into incoherent shouting about birthdays and theatres. She called this language, which only they seemed to be able to understand, 'twin-speak.' Regis laughed.

Council concluded early; though they still had no news on their diplomats, many were losing hope that they should ever hear what became of them. Regis changed from his more ceremonial formalwear into a fresh suit and went back to the nursery. He left his crown behind.

"Dada!" Reina, sitting in Crea's lap and having her hair braided, twisted around when he entered.

"Sit still, please, Reina; I'm not done with you, yet." Crea glanced up at him, smiling, before returning her focus to her work. She spent another moment putting the last finishing touches on Reina's hair before releasing the little princess. Reina lost no time in leaping into Regis' outstretched arms.

"Why, little princess, you look positively royal!" He lifted her over his head—which he had started doing again once she had stopped drooling on him—and earned a gleeful laugh from her. She certainly looked prepared for a night at the theatre, with her little tulle dress of midnight blue and her hair braided in a crown and adorned with little jewels.

"I've been waiting for her to be old enough to sit still for this for  _ages_ ," Crea said. "We're going to have so much fun with your hair this year, aren't we, Reina?"

Regis had been so focused on Reina that he hadn't properly looked at Crea before. Now he did.

He couldn't recall having ever seen her wear something  _besides_ jeans and a sweater—or some equally practical outfit. Certainly, he had never seen her wearing a dress and all…

He was staring.

"What?" She asked. "Oh—" she smoothed her hands over the cherry blossom pink gown. "—I know. It's like trying to put a cat in a tutu: she might fit, but she's never going to fit in with the ballerinas."

"No—" Regis had to clear his throat to make his voice work again. "No, I think you look lovely."

She flushed. She opened and closed her mouth twice before she was spared the need to think of something to say by the arrival of Noctis and one of the nurses—also dressed formally for a night out.

"I had to bribe him so I could comb his hair, Miss—" The nurse stopped short upon catching sight of Regis and curtsied hastily. "Your Majesty!"

"Dada, look!" Noctis marched up and pointed to his foot.

"He's most excited about his shoes, Your Majesty…" the nurse supplied, almost apologetic. "I don't know why."

Did it really need a reason?

Regis crouched down, still holding Reina in one arm, and admired Noctis shoes for several moments—at least until Noctis grew tired of showing them to him. By then it was time to be on their way; they left, walking with Noctis holding both Regis' hand and Crea's and walking in between them, while Reina sat content on Regis' hip. He felt whole, as he only seemed to on those nights that the four of them shared. It promised to be a lovely evening.

Cor was waiting for them outside, with the door to the Regalia open for them and another pair of cars parked at the bottom of the stairs, doubtless full of Crownsguards. Noctis insisted on jumping down each step, hanging on their hands and forcing Crea to lend him both hands while he swung back and forth.

"King Regis!"

No sooner had they reached the car than someone called him back. Regis turned to see Clarus at the top of the steps, looking grave. He knew before Clarus reached the bottom of the stairs what that look meant—not what the cause was, no, but simply what it meant for him:

He was never going to make it to the theatre. The night was over before it had begun.

"Imperials have landed in Cleigne, Your Majesty." Clarus leaned close to speak. "In fighting force. They have issued no statement, but they sent ahead… a box."

Regis furrowed his brow. "Containing what?"

Clarus hesitated, glancing at Crea and the other nurse. "The whereabouts of our diplomats, Sire."

The  _box_ had contained—?

Oh. Oh  _Gods_.

"The council is convening, Your Majesty."

And there it was. The choice laid before him: his kingdom or his children; his people or his family. It wasn't a choice he relished making. But he made the only choice he could have, in that situation.

"See that they have an enjoyable night, please, Crea." He passed Reina to her.

Crea gave him a regretful look—but she understood, as well as she could; she took Reina. As she so often did, Reina objected and clung to his suit. But he had to go, no matter how his heart broke for them.

"Happy birthday, Reina, my dear. Happy birthday, Noctis. Have fun at the theatre, dearest ones." He kissed them both and turned to follow Clarus back up the steps. "Cor—" he paused to issue one last instruction. "—Guard them with your life."

Cor bowed, expression unchanging. Probably he approved of Regis' choice. At least someone did.

Because Regis certainly couldn't.


	5. Struggle

On the walk across the Citadel, Clarus filled in the details that he had not been able to openly share, before. It seemed that Niflheim had been spotted but an hour ago in a fleet of Magitek ships bearing a small army of MT soldiers. The coastal watchpost had caught sight of them as they advanced and raised the alarm. The imperials did not, however, attack. At least, not immediately. Their first order of business had been to deliver a two-foot square box to the the foot of the watchpost—

"It seemed they knew precisely where it was, though we had taken great pains to hide them," Clarus noted.

A disturbing thought. More disturbing, however, were the contents of the box.

The whereabouts of their diplomats, indeed. The box contained both of them—or, at least, their heads. The lookouts had been mystified as to the apparent warning, but they had at least had the good sense to pass the information along higher up the chain. While the Cleigne Militia assembled, a gruesome image had been sent up the chain of command from cell phone to cell phone. It was now on Clarus' phone. Regis would have preferred not to look, but he did, anyway. He owed them that much, at least.

All of the council was assembled by the time Regis and Clarus arrived. No sooner was he seated than the facade of calm broke and the frenetic discussion began.

"Report from the outskirts, Your Majesty: the militia is armed and prepared for battle, but the Magitek soldiers appear to be holding their ground without attacking."

"Waiting for orders, doubtless."

"Waiting for  _us_ , doubtless—if that…  _delivery_  was not a warning, I don't know what is. We must abandon our hopes for an alliance with Accordo and make it clear that we have done so."

"You would have us turn tail and flee? I was not aware that Niflheim had yet won rule of Lucis."

"Niflheim knows our plans." Aldebrand jabbed at the tabletop with his finger to emphasize the words. "To proceed as intended would be a fool's errand."

"And to withdraw now would be a coward's."

"Enough," Clarus halted further discussion with the one word. "We are all on edge. But to sink to flinging insults is beneath us all. We are here to discuss how best to proceed,  _not_ to criticize our fellows' characters."

Silence fell, at least for a moment. Most at the table turned their gaze downward and refused to meet another's eyes. Hamon alone, who had sat quietly aloof as the discussion devolved into an argument, was unmoved.

He spoke first. "Might I suggest that our first concern is  _not_ Accordo at all, but our own borders? Whether or not an alliance can be salvaged will be immaterial if the situation in Cleigne is not dealt with."

Regis gave Clarus a nod.

"Cleigne's militia may be assembled," Clarus said, "But should Niflheim choose to attack, there is only so much they can do to hold back the MTs. The hunters may be adept, and the Outlanders are hardy folk. However, their numbers are few. Niflheim can always send more Magitek soldiers to replace the ones they lose."

"Then we must deploy the army," Aldebrand said. "Let us push back the metal men before they have a chance to sink their claws in."

"What of the other Outland militias?" Felice asked. "If Lucis is threatened, surely they must answer the call, as well."

"That may leave us open to attacks elsewhere in our lands," Clarus pointed out.

"Have we any reason to suspect that they will attack elsewhere?"

"Have we any reason not to?" Hamon asked.

He had a way of ending discussions with very few words. And so it was decided: the other militias would not be called, but the army  _would_ be sent to Cleigne. Furthermore, if the empire did not attack soon, they would provoke hostilities, themselves, to push the MTs off Lucian soil.

The rest was more troublesome. For some time they went back and forth over the matter in Accordo. Some supported the immediate withdrawal of the operatives they had stationed there—whether for the sake of the operatives, themselves, or because they hoped to appease Niflheim by doing so—while others insisted that the Crownsguards must remain. There was a compelling argument for the latter, at least, in that to withdraw them so quickly would likely draw attention to them and, as Hamon so ominously noted, the empire had only too clearly shown they had no qualms with dismembering Lucians found in Accordo.

But even no choice was a choice. And so they stayed and they discussed. The clock over the door counted past the hour when the theatre program was to begin, past the hour when it was to end, past the hour of dinner reservations, past the hour when the little prince and princess would be presented with their birthday cakes, past the hour when they must have returned to the Citadel, and past the hour when they were to be in bed. Well past.

By then, Regis, at least, had made up his mind. Even if the others were still split, he would end this. There were lives at stake.

When he sat forward in his chair the rest of the room grew quiet. "It is clear to me that to withdraw our people at this time would be incredibly dangerous for them. We will not risk any more Lucian lives, tonight. Not without great need. Clarus, you are to tell your people that they must take whatever steps necessary to remain undetected. If we deem it safe to do so, we will extract them—until then, any input they can give is invaluable."

"It may be necessary to maintain radio silence for a time, Your Majesty," Clarus said.

"So be it. Arrange that they check in as regularly as you deem prudent."

By then it was past midnight and Regis' mood was dark. It grew darker, still, when he passed by the silent nursery, finding his children abed and the night staff in residence.

They were three years old, now. He had missed their first trip to the theatre. They might not grow up to remember that event in particular, but they would grow up remembering many more like it. How many times could he make plans with them, which he later abandoned, before they stopped believing he would ever be there at all? How many more birthdays would he be forced to miss, for the sake of the kingdom?

 _Choose_ to miss.

He could point to duty all he liked. He could hide behind the crown or the council or whatever other obligations he deemed suitable. But the fact was that he  _had_ made a choice. And he had chosen Lucis over his children.

It was the same choice his own father had made, time and time again. It was the same choice he had resented so much as a child—the knowledge that he was not, nor would he ever be, the most important thing in his father's life.

When Aulea had been pregnant, Regis had told himself he would do better. Surely, it was possible to balance kingdom and family without making such a choice. His own children, he had sworn, would not grow up that way. The naive hopes of a too-young man.

His children would grow up the same way he had. The same way his father had, and his grandfather and his great-grandfather and every Lucis Caelum in the last two thousand years. He wasn't any different than they had been; to imagine he could be was foolish and arrogant. Of course it was impossible; no king could balance both without making concessions.

They would grow into children, then adolescents, then teenagers believing that they were not the most important people in is life. It wasn't true. But it also wouldn't matter how often he told them that. Eventually they would stop believing it, just as he had.

Regis sat in front of the dying fire in his sitting room and nursed a glass of wine, hoping it would deaden enough of the pain or blur enough of the black thoughts to let him sleep. By the flickering light, he stared at the ring on his hand.

"I understand, Father," he said. "And for every birthday you missed, every promise you broke… I forgive you."

 _Someday, they will, too._  The response was more knowledge in his mind than it was a whisper in his ear. Such was the way of the Lucii, after one grew accustomed to the ring.

It offered him little would have preferred that his children never needed to understand.

The following morning was grey, as if to remind him that summer was leaving and winter was on its way once more. By the time he was dressed and on his way to the nursery, a light drizzle had begun to fall, outside. It echoed his mood uncommonly well.

Inside the nursery, however, life had gone on in his absence. Noctis was running around in his pajamas—which were, without contest, the cutest onsie Regis had ever set eyes on: bright green and patterned like scales, with a little tail and a hood that had teeth. Reina—though her hair had been washed and combed down from the braided crown she had worn the night before—was wearing her little tulle dress. She knelt on the window seat with her palms and nose pressed against the glass.

Both of them turned when he entered. They smiled and greeted him, as if they didn't remember the how he had abandoned them the night before. Somehow it didn't make him feel any better.

Noctis raced over and hugged him around his shins. Regis scooped him up and carried him over to the window so they could sit beside Reina.

"Did you have fun, last night, little prince?" Regis asked.

"Mm. Mm-hmm." Noctis stood up on his lap and then leaned forward to hug Reina around the neck.

Reina either didn't notice or didn't care. "Daddy, look!" She pointed out the window at the rain.

"Yes, I do see, my dear. Do you like the rain?"

"Yes," she said, definitively, though she continued to point to the window. It took a moment for him to realize she was tracing the line that one raindrop followed as it fell down the window, picking up speed for every other drop that it swallowed and leaving a trail of miniscule water spots in its wake. When one drop grew too heavy and fell out of sight, Reina chose another and followed that one down. She hummed while she did so. It wasn't a tune he immediately recognized.

Here he was, moping about the rain, only to come and find his daughter delighting in it. When he had been her age, he hated to be stuck inside all day during a storm. And here she was, finding joy and amusement in the tiny things that he walked past every day and never noticed.

"What are you humming, little princess?"

"Kitty cat!"

That, he was  _fairly_  certain, was  _not_ a song. Nor did it really answer his question.

"Kitty cat…?"

"From Petrus and the Coeurl." Crea appeared in the kitchen doorway. "You would not  _believe_ a three-year-old's capacity for repeating things she has heard only a few times."

Regis looked back to find that both twins were kneeling beside him tracing different water drops down the window, often in different directions, and giggling whenever their drops collided.

"Reina." She looked up when Crea called. "Can you sing Petrus' song for Daddy?"

She sat back on her heels and hummed a new tune, which he  _did_ recognize, though it had been many years since he had last heard it. This one she emphasized by waving her little hands back and forth. It took a moment for him to connect that motion to the motions that a conductor made in front of an orchestra.

"That is extraordinary! Can she do the whole thing?" He asked.

"Just parts. But don't worry—I got them the CD. In a few days—if I haven't gotten sick of it by then and thrown it out the window—I guarantee we will hear the full opus from her, every day." Crea joined them at the window seat. Without being asked, she filled in every detail of the previous night.

The show, she said, was excellent. It had been her first experience, as well, and so Regis heard the story through that lens of wonder and awe. The Crown City Philharmonic was fantastic and, though she originally had her misgivings about taking two three-year-olds to see a story that was almost entirely music with a little bit of narration, those doubts were almost immediately washed away. The musicians, center stage, were all dressed and made-up in the fashion of the animals their instrument represented. The clarinet players were dressed as cats with little whiskers painted on their faces, the flutists had magnificent wings and feather headdresses to represent the bird, and the bassoonists were all dressed as little old men—complete with balding heads and cranky expressions.

The narrator had their attention from the very first line; Reina and Noctis had both been enraptured throughout—but Reina alone had stood on her chair with her little hands clasped in front of her and stared at the stage with open-mouthed awe through the entire performance. All through dinner, all the way home, through their baths, and through bedtime, Reina had hummed—over and over—her favorite bits and pieces from the performance. She had also, Crea noted with exasperation, insisted on sleeping in her dress.

Regis beamed and laughed throughout, giving both of the twins a kiss on the head when the tale concluded. But in the quiet that followed, his regret returned to him.

He sighed. "I must apologize for leaving as I did… I had hoped…" He shook his head. "But it hardly matters what my intentions were, does it? They will only care that I did not accompany them on their birthday."

"They were upset," Crea condeded. "But they're smart kids. They adapt quickly."

"That is part of what troubles me."

How long before they adapted to never having him around? How long before they stopped expecting it?

Crea reached out and covered his hand with hers. "No parents is every happy with what he can give to his children. There's always more to be done. But your children will grow up knowing that their father keeps all of Lucis safe—that he commands armies and controls the Wall, that he is a kind and just king. And while you can't always be there for them, you can always be the man they are proud to call 'father.'"

It wasn't often that he was rendered completely speechless. But in the long hours that had stretched since they had last spoken, it had never once occurred to him that not only would his children understand why he made the choices he made… but they might also be proud to have such a man as a father, rather than resigned.

So all he could do was stare at her while his brain stalled.

"When you're pulled away— _especially_ when you're pulled away from something so important—I don't tell them that their father has more important things to see to than them; I tell them that their father is a hero and that sometimes heroes have to do things they don't want to do. I take them out to the balcony so we can stand and watch all the people going about their lives below; I tell them that every one of those people is counting on their father to keep them safe. And I show them the sky so they can see what you do for us; I tell them  _that_ —" she pointed out the window, where the Wall shimmered over the city. "—is only one of the things you do for everyone here. And Lucis is the only kingdom in the world with a king who can do any of this."

Regis couldn't have said a single word, even if he had one to say. His jaw was too tight; if he opened his mouth, nothing sensible was going to come out. But he turned his hand and took hers, squeezing fiercely.

"So you go and do what needs to be done. And I'll explain to them a hundred times over that their father is the most extraordinary man on Eos—and that he carries all of Lucis on his back."

"Thank you." The words came out strangled; his eyes burned, but he didn't let the tears fall.

Much as he wanted to skip his morning workout with Cor, something told him he was to need it. So he pulled away reluctantly, leaving his children in Crea's capable hands and going to seek out Cor, and change for what was certain to be a challenging morning.

He found Cor and Clarus both waiting for him at the south exit to the gardens. They stood with their heads together in quiet discussion—though precisely what they discussed, he never found out; it ceased as soon as they caught sight of him. Rarely a good sign.

"Clarus," Regis greeted. "Come to join in the suffering?"

"I thought I might." Clarus clapped him on the shoulder. "Cor tells me I'm getting fat."

The look on Cor's face said he had done no such thing, but he didn't correct Clarus.

"I do not suppose you could be convinced to avoid the gardens, this morning?" Regis asked Cor.

"Why?"

"All others' proclivities aside, I prefer not to run in the rain," Regis said.

Cor glanced out the glass doors, as if he hadn't noticed it was raining. "It's only a drizzle." He pulled the door open.

That, Regis suspected, was a resounding no. He gave Clarus a long-suffering look and received only a grin in return. Then they both followed Cor out and fell into a silent—if not comfortable—jog.

Cor's 'drizzle' had them soaked through before thirty minutes were over, but he didn't seem to notice. If Regis hadn't known better, he would have said that Cor came from the same place that Niflheim's Magitek soldiers did—wherever that was. Clarus kept up with relative ease—though he, at least,  _did_  notice the rain and occasionally jerked his head toward Cor and shot Regis a look that implied he was questioning their friend's sanity. Between the three of them, only Regis seemed to be struggling by the end. Wasn't this sort of thing supposed to get easier with more practice?

By the time they had concluded their rounds through the garden, not even Cor could claim it wasn't raining, anymore. That, combined with the thunder that was beginning to rumble in the distance, at least had the benefit of convincing Cor to take them inside before finishing off the morning with his requisite number of push-ups, pull-ups, and crunches. Regis tried not to pay attention to the fact that Cor and Clarus both outperformed him on every mark.

"I thought you were supposed to be the old man," Regis complained as Clarus pulled him to his feet.

"Amicitia blood defies age," Clarus said sagely.

"Yes, well," Regis said. "Caelum blood is only meant to be spilled for the good of Lucis. Now  _I_ am going to have a hot shower before we are due in court. I will see you shortly."

He made good of his words, bidding both of them a brief farewell and leaving them behind to drip in the hallway and attract the ire of whichever servant spotted them first. Both Clarus and Cor stood together, watching him go in silence.

* * *

"You see what I mean," Cor said. He didn't bother to make it a question.

Clarus nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.

"It  _isn't_ just his age," Cor said. That one was  _almost_  a question. "You are five years older than him."

Clarus nodded once more, tight-lipped, and glanced down the hallway. "Let us not discuss this here. Come. My office."

They went, leaving a trail of wet footprints through the Citadel and up to Clarus' office. It wouldn't do to discuss the king's health out in the open; discrete the household servants may have been, but it only took a few words to start rumors and Clarus wished to avoid that.

His office was in the Crownsguard wing of the Citadel. So infrequently was he there, that it was practically bare. His desk was clear of any sort of papers or clutter, holding only a writing mat, a fountain pen, and a single potted plant—which was only alive because the servants who came in to tidy regularly (and unnecessarily) watered it for him. It was a nice room—a lovely view of Insomnia from his window. But Clarus was most often with Regis, and so he was most often  _not_ in his office.

He ushered Cor in and shut the door behind him. "We knew from the start that taking on the weight of the wall would be a burden—both mental and physical—for him. I suppose we should only be grateful that it has taken so many years to be noticeable at all."

"How has he not noticed?" Cor asked.

Clarus put his back to his desk and leaned against it. "Likely he has—though he may not yet attach much significance to it. This is merely a part of his life; with nothing to compare it to, how would he begin to quantify it? There may be countless other signs we have not see, but which he experiences every day."

"So." Cor folded his arms across his chest. "What do we do?"

"Do?" Clarus gave a dry, humorless laugh.

"There must me a way to combat this."

And that was Cor in a nutshell. Every problem was to be taken head-on, fought, and defeated. The idea that some problems couldn't be solved had not yet occurred to him. It should have—he had watched King Mors waste away just as Clarus and Regis had—but he had been even younger at that time. Perhaps he still put that down to age. Now he saw this juxtaposition—the strong and fierce prince he had once served on the front lines was wearing down as a king. He could not attribute that to age. Not anymore.

"We do what we are sworn to do—what we have always done," Clarus said, "Stand by his side, ensure that his shield and his blade are ever within reach, and give whatever it takes to protect and support him. He will need it more than ever as the years go by. This will never get easier—no matter what we do or how hard we try—it will only get more difficult."

"You mean to just sit here and watch him waste away? Turn into an old man before his fortieth birthday, and lose the ability to run even a single mile?" Cor growled.

Clarus straightened. "Yes. I do. Because he deserves to have someone standing at his side while he spends his lifeblood to keep Lucis safe. Someone who will keep  _him_ safe when he loses the strength to lift his own sword. What will you do? Turn tail and flee, because you cannot stand to watch this happen to him? Don't be a fool, Cor. Don't be a coward."

"Don't call me a coward!"

"Then stop acting like one!" Clarus shot back. "Are you a king's man or aren't you?"

"Of course I am."

"Then start showing it. Accept that the only way to  _fix_ this problem would be for Regis to give up on his duty. This is the sacrifice he makes. For you. For me. For all of Lucis. The least we can do for him is stand beside him and bear witness."

Cor dropped his gaze. He was angry, still, but Clarus had shamed him soundly. The anger was more at the situation than anything else. Understanding that was the only thing that kept Clarus from rubbing his nose in it.

Clarus sighed, breaking the silence and stepping forward to grasp Cor's shoulder. "I don't want to watch this, either. But let's not fall prey to self-pity; remember that this will always be more difficult for him."

Cor looked up, face tight, and finally nodded. "And the morning workouts? He can't keep up, anymore…"

"Then make them shorter until he can. He won't object—not at first. He may, later, but…" He didn't finish that thought.

"The point is to be challenged," Cor objected.

"The point is to make him forget—if only for a little while—that his wife is gone and all of Lucis is counting on him to keep them alive. Do not delude yourself into believing that if you challenge him more he will make improvements. The fact is that he won't; not now, not ever. You will only ever be rolling your workouts back, because he simply cannot handle the strain required for improvement. His body is under stress constantly—every minute of every day the crystal drags at him to power the Wall. When it has taken its pound of flesh, there is not enough remaining for any training you might plan for him."

Better that they all come to terms with that, now. It would only be harder to accept, later.


	6. Operatives

As the council decided, so was it done: the Crownsguard operatives in Accordo dropped out of contact in an effort not to be noticed by the imperials. It was a tense first week while they waited for the initial check-in. No one wished to be the one to speak aloud what everyone was thinking: that if Niflheim was going to sniff out and execute their spies, it would be now, right after the warning had been issued. So no one spoke of it. And they sat on their hopes and waited, trying to think of other things.

The imperials maintained an eerily silent presence on the outskirts of Cleigne. It was made all the more unsettling by the fact that Magitek soldiers seemed to require none of the human necessities—they never slept, nor ate, so far as anyone could tell—and so they merely stood frozen in ranks. Waiting. They were also holding the ground between the mainland and a few of the offshoot islands, which put the Outlanders who dwelled there in an uncomfortable position.

The western islands were mostly fishing villages, still—some historical vestige from a time when such a thing had been profitable to Lucis. Deep in some dusty vault of the Citadel, there were records of the founding of such villages—Galahd being the most notable among them. During an ambitious quest in Regis' younger years to learn more of the kingdom he was meant to inherit, he had delved into those records and read of the charter members. He remembered that now only because of a peculiarity he found: that those few who had first struck out to the western islands were led by one Iuniore Lucis Caelum—the younger sister of Tonitrus the Fierce.

By now, their exports had dwindled to the non-existent and all others had long since lost track of any claim to royal heritage, but they carried on with the fishing tradition in order to feed their own people. On the whole, they were self-sufficient; a hardy people who took care of themselves and their kin and never asked for help from a king too far away to ever be seen. If the mainland Outlanders were outsiders in Insomnia, then the islanders were outsiders even on the mainland. Though they were close enough to reach by bridge, few ever did so.

And now they were the victims of a double threat on Lucis' coast. In chess it would have been called a fork: that knowledge offered Regis very little comfort as he stared at his maps and tried not to think of Niflheim's superior forces. He refused to imagine his people as chess pieces.

He allowed himself and the council but one day to deliberate. One day to see the army deployed and move into place. Then they attacked. Better to force the empire's hand and take the initial advantage than play safer and gamble the islands away.

And so he sat, a lone man on a throne, ordering his people to their potential deaths against Magitek soldiers who felt no pain and no fear. The only ones who saw how much that troubled him were Clarus, Weskham, and Cor. To the council and to his generals, he was as stone. He could not afford to show that weakness and doubt to those he demanded loyalty and obedience from. He hid it in a dark corner of his mind and chipped away at it through long morning runs with Cor and visits to the nursery—both spontaneous and planned.

When he did come to the nursery, he was greeted more often than not by the opus Petrus and the Coeurl. He had thought there was nothing more precious that Reina humming away as she watched raindrops on the window, but Reina standing in front of the CD player and conducting an imaginary orchestra may have been that. Within four days, as Crea had predicted, Reina knew the whole opus forward and backward and would hum pieces of it in the bath or at the kitchen table or whenever it wasn't already playing in the background.

That was how Regis found them, that morning: finishing up their breakfast while Reina hummed through a mouthful of porridge and kicked her feet in her chair.

"Dada, Reina won't stop singing," Noctis complained, as soon as he caught sight of Regis. "She won't stop."

"Yes, I can hear that, little prince. What is she singing?"

"Petus and the corl."

Well, there were a few letters missing somewhere in there, but if he made himself understood, what did it really matter?

"You can thank Dad for  _that_ one," Crea said.

"I?" Regis stooped to give Noctis a kiss on the head before rounding to do the same for Reina. "I have had nothing to do with it."

"Oh no? Who suggested we go to the theatre in the first place?"

"That I may have done," Regis conceded. "But I did not bring home the CD."

"Dada." Reina stopped humming for long enough to look up at him.

"Yes, my dear?"

"I'm a con-duct-or."

"Are you, now? Well then, where is your orchestra?" He stooped, hands on his knees, and put himself nose-to-nose with her.

Reina craned her neck to look around him, then pointed. He turned to follow the motion; she pointed directly at the speaker sitting on the floor in the adjacent room—just visible through the open doorway.

"Consider me outsmarted," Regis said. "You do, indeed, have an orchestra."

He straightened in time to see Crea hide a smile behind her hand.

"Well, she has a promising career in music if this whole royalty thing doesn't pan out," Crea said.

Or if she wasn't named heir at all.

Regis pushed that uncomfortable thought away.

"All done!" Noctis announced, pushing his half-full bowl of porridge away ( _not_  off the table, this time, which was an improvement from some other mornings).

Crea passed Regis a washcloth. They fell into the comfortable post-breakfast routine, washing tiny faces and tiny hands and releasing tiny children off to play. Not so tiny, anymore. And growing bigger every day. Here they were discussing the first ever 'when I grow up…' and not for the first time Regis found himself wishing they could be normal children with a normal life and normal futures—free to pursue whatever paths they wished. Alas, they would be confined by birth and station, forced—whether they willed it or not—into governance.

At least one of them.

Regis stood in the kitchen doorway and watched Reina turn on her music and begin conducting her invisible orchestra. Noctis approached, hands outstretched, and grabbed hers. They fell into a giggling, reverse tug-of-war, each pushing as hard as they could against the other and neither moving anywhere.

No. Those children would each grow up with precisely one other person who truly understood them, who had gone through every experience with them. No matter what came next, no matter which was destined to sit on the throne, they would stand together.

Crea came up behind him, touching his arm lightly and breaking him from his reverie. She was watching Reina and Noctis. "What do you think about putting her in music lessons?"

"At her age?"

Crea shrugged one shoulder. "It's not unheard of, with the right teacher."

Regis looked back at the twins. Noctis had managed to gain some headway—he was already a few inches taller than her and now he put the extra height to good use.

Regis shook his head. "I should not like for her to be trapped in anything so young."

Because they would both be, later. Unavoidably.

Crea was silent for a moment. When he looked back, it was to find her studying him with a curious look. Not unlike the appraising look that Weskham gave him, sometimes.

"I know you're afraid they won't be able to do what they want, when they grow up," Crea said, softly. "And you're right, of course. All the more reason to let them do it, now. Taking music lessons at three is hardly going to dictate the rest of her life. If she grows disinterested—which she likely will—then she doesn't have to stay in them. You have the unique advantage of near-unlimited resources; little is lost either way."

"And if she never loses interest? When I must tell her that these dreams she has for her future must always remain that—merely dreams? What then?"

"Then at least she will have had years learning what she loves." Crea looked up at him and laid her hand over his arm, squeezing gently. "It would be a mistake to try to protect them from future pain by forbidding them from enjoying themselves, now."

He looked back at his children. She was right—of course she was right—but it still felt like setting Reina up for disappointment.

"If you had known, years ago, that your wife would die young… would you still have married her?"

"Of course I would have." Regis turned to look sharply at her. How could she even suggest that—

Crea was smiling—not happy, by any stretch, but the expression was still there.

Ah. How could she suggest he would rather never have had that time with her, merely to spare himself this pain? The same way he could try to do the same thing to his children.

He sighed. "Very well. As usual, I defer to your expertise in these matters. If you think she might enjoy learning this… you have my permission to hire whatever staff is necessary."

Neither of them much expected it should last long—Reina was only three, after all. Certainly, neither expected it would last until adulthood. Later he would think back on this moment and shake his head, still amazed.

That was four days after their birthday. Another three passed of sitting and waiting, listening to regular reports from the battlefront in Cleigne while they all held their breath for the report they truly wanted. Then came the day when their Crownsguard operatives in Accordo were meant to check in.

Half a dozen men and women had been left there. Clarus' orders to them had been simple in essence and potentially impossible in practice: disappear, any way they could, and then send word on the seventh day. Regis woke that morning, half expecting to be summoned before he was even through getting dressed, as they had no timeframe in which to expect contact. But Weskham arrived without word from Clarus or the council, and the morning unfolded much as every other morning had for the week before.

Regis met with Cor for morning penance (for what, he hadn't decided, yet), returned to his rooms in time to shower, change, and stop by the nursery for a brief exchange of good mornings, then joined the full council in court.

It was a tense morning, which grew only tenser as the hours passed without word—in any form—from Accordo. Six people had a twenty-four hour period in which to report. It was growing increasingly less statistically likely that  _all_ of them had put off contact for so long.

Felice was the one who said the words they were all thinking: "Surely… they cannot all be…"

'Dead,' is what she meant. What she said was:

"Compromised…"

No one responded. Twelve of the twenty-four hours had burned away. Assuming a perfectly random spread, that put a guess at three casualties, so far.

Cor stood in court with them. He had more important things to do than guard duty, but no one told him off for it: Clarus may have been Commander of the Crownsguard in name, but those were Cor's people in Accordo. He had picked them all by hand. And as the afternoon wore on with still no word, his expression grew more drawn, the set of his mouth more grim.

By the time council convened in the evening, no one was in a frame of mind to discuss the tax board or the bridge repairs. Clarus set his phone on the table, face up, and, after a few half-hearted attempts to discussion, they fell to silently waiting.

It was ten when they adjourned.

Clarus' phone had remained silent throughout.

A few of them stood about in the hall, after, looking at each other and shaking their heads grimly. It would almost have been better to know for certain what had happened to the Crownsguards, but by then they had been all but declared dead. The council dispersed, leaving Regis standing in the hall with Clarus and Cor.

"Two hours left," Clarus observed.

None of them expected a call in those two hours, but they went to Regis' study, all the same.

Weskham was waiting for them, with his uncanny knack for knowing where he was needed and how much alcohol to bring. It was a night beyond the reaches of wine. He poured them scotch, instead, and the four sat around the coffee table, staring at a small pile of phones.

"It is possible," Weskham noted, "That some of them have not had a safe opportunity to contact us."

_Some_.

"And the others?" Cor asked. He didn't want to know the answer; he said it only to remind them that  _someone_ should have checked in, by now, if they still lived.

None of them spoke. Eventually Cor drained his glass and stood. He paced the length of the office, back and forth past the windows, betraying the restlessness that everyone else felt. Regis might have done the same, but he was so  _damn_ tired.

Finally, he spoke: "We ought have withdrawn when we had the chance."

"They would only have been caught and killed on the way out." Clarus shook his head. "No, Regis—I doubt it would have done them any favors. But Weskham is right. Some may yet be hiding."

"I wouldn't hope too hard for that, if I were you." Cor had stopped pacing. "They're dead—or most of them are—and if Niflheim can root out some of them in a week, the others have little chance. But they knew the risks, going in. Everyone one of them knew—"

Clarus' phone rang. For a moment, all four of them were too stunned to do anything but stare at it. Then it rang again and Clarus lurched forward to answer it.

"This is Clarus." He jabbed the speaker phone icon and set it back on the coffee table, though he remained leaned forward over it.

" _Commander. Apologies for the delay: Lieutenant Ackers and Sergent Elshett checking in."_  A crisp, male voice issued from the speaker.

Two of them, alive. Regis shut his eyes and let out a breath. By the windows, Cor surged forward.

"Lieutenant. Have you made contact with any of the others?" Cor demanded.

" _I fear not, Marshal—"_

" _Has no one else checked in?"_  A second voice chimed in—a female, who spoke with military precision.

Clarus glanced up at Regis. Regis gave him a tiny nod.

"No one," Clarus affirmed.

Silence on the other side, as the news sunk in.

Regis sat forward in his chair. "Lieutenant—are you safe?"

" _Your Majesty—?!"_ Stunned realization from the Lieutenant before he recovered his composure. " _Ah, yes, Sire. I believe, for the moment, we are undetected. I dare not divulge our location; the security of this line of communication leaves much to be desired."_

"You should know, Lieutenant, Sergeant—that no plans have been made regarding your extraction," Clarus said. "But in light of recent events…"

" _Spare the effort, Commander,"_ Lieutenant Ackers said. " _We were well aware of the dangers when we took this assignments, and we intend to see it to completion, regardless of the change in environment."_

Everyone left in Accordo, save them, was dead and they were still determined to continue reconnaissance. Regis glanced at Cor, who nodded his approval—unsurprised. Why should he be? He had, after all, chosen them.

"If that is your intent, then continue with the crown's blessing," Regis said. "Godspeed, Lieutenant Ackers, Sergeant Elshett."

Regis returned to his rooms that night none the wiser as to how or why those two out of six Crownsguards had survived the imperial purge, but at least knowing that he had not sent  _all_ of them to their deaths. It was a small consolation, but he took it; he would mourn the others no less for it. Whatever slim possibility remained that some among them had survived, Regis did not hold onto hope.

The next days passed according to routine. He ran with Cor in the mornings, he visited the nursery, he held court and council and received either too much or too little word from the battlefront. Most days he was too busy to see his children again after the morning—though sometimes he did squeeze in a visit around dinner time. Outside of those times he saw Crea not at all—she worked sixteen or eighteen hour shifts most every day, so he could hardly complain, but it was always disappointing to arrive after she had left at night. He told himself it was because his children were already asleep.

And so it was it was all the more shocking to find her in the gardens one morning near dawn while he was out with Cor.

She was with Weskham. They sat together on a garden bench, close enough together that their knees touched, and deep in conversation.

There was no reason for that to bother him, no reason he should feel an impulse to banish one or both of them—preferably Weskham alone—from the gardens. But it did and he did. He couldn't decide whether he was relieved or annoyed that they hadn't noticed him. He was still trying to decide when he realized that Cor's choice of path would take them directly past Crea and Weskham.

Weskham noted their approach first. He looked up and smiled easily. "Good morning, Your Majesty! Cor!"

Then Crea looked up and smiled as well.

It was too late to feel self-conscious about being a sweaty, out-of-shape and out-of-breath old man. He did it, anyway. And they slowed to a stop, though he wasn't certain if that was his own doing or Cor's doing.

"Morning." Cor wasn't even winded.

Regis shot him an envious look and took the opportunity for a drink of water. When he could speak, he did so.

"Good morning. What brings the pair of you here?" It came out more clipped than he had intended.

"Miss Vinculum and I were discussing the potential candidates for a governess—I hear little Reina is to begin learning music," Weskham said, in that easy, slow way of his. Now that Regis looked, he  _did_ note the small stack of papers beside Crea.

"That is the intent," Regis said. "I should be interested in seeing your candidates for myself."

Weskham raised his eyebrows. Likely because Regis had taken no interest whatsoever in the hiring of staff thus far during his reign. But  _this_ choice was specific to his children. Of course that was the reason. What else would it have been?

"If you have time, I'd be happy to discuss with you," Crea said.

"Tonight," Regis said. "I will see that council ends on time."

"I'll wait," she said.

"Your Majesty," Cor urged. "Unscheduled breaks will ruin your form."

Regis sighed. His form was already ruined. And he didn't want to leave Weskham sitting there with Crea, but he had little way to prevent that, unless he wished to abuse his station. So he let Cor pull him away, though he kept one eye on them until they disappeared between hedges. Then he fumed silently. It had, at least, the beneficial effect of making more motivated to push himself. Cor noted that their time was better than normal, once the break was accounted for.

In spite of his promise to end council on time and meet with Crea afterward, work and duty took precedence. By the time Regis returned to the upper levels of the Citadel it was nearing midnight and he had long since forgotten his intentions. But luck and habit had him stopping at the nursery, anyway, even knowing that Reina and Noctis would be abed.

He cracked the door open and slipped into the darkened interior. As expected, it was quiet and still inside. Less expected—Crea was curled up in the rocking chair by the window, also asleep. His fault.

Regis woke her with a touch. She was a light sleeper, and her eyes sprang open in the dark, nearly skipping the fuzzy stage of groggy incomprehension.

"Regis," she said, keeping her voice low for the sleeping children. "I thought you were going to end on time. Or is this on schedule, for you?"

Regis made a sound of regret. "I  _had_ intended to be here much earlier—I do apologize; matters… required my attention."

She smiled. "Don't apologize. Anyone who promises to wait for the king does it with the understanding that he'll be late."

Not  _entirely_ reassuring, but the sentiment was nice.

"Do you still want to see the governess applicants?" She asked. "If you don't, it can wait…"

"No, I should like to—provided you are not too tired."

She worked as much as he did.

"I'm fine." She yawned widely, giving lie to her words, then grinned, climbing to her feet. " _Really_."

"Then let us go somewhere where we might speak—and turn on the lights." He led her out and down the hall to his rooms.

Crea hesitated in the doorway.

"Is something wrong?" He asked.

"I just—" She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. "—if someone told me a few years ago that I would be sitting in King Regis' rooms, discussing a governess for the prince and princess, I would have laughed in their face."

"And now you know that the king is really quite commonplace and nothing to excite you at all," Regis said.

She stepped inside and he closed the door behind her.

"Hardly," she said, taking the armchair that he offered her. "You'd think that I'd get used to it, but I never do. Every time you walk into the room I think how incredibly lucky I am." She stopped herself, flushing faintly. "I mean—"

Regis held up a hand to save her the trouble of explaining. "I believe I understand. Some people have a way of reminding us what we value most."

Aulea.

"I am honored to be such a person, for you," he said. "Come, now. Let us see these applicants you spoke of."

They spent the better part of an hour pouring over the top candidates, heads together and each leaning on the arm of their chair so they could both read the pages. Regis was immediately reminded that he knew absolutely nothing about the criteria for evaluating a governess, but he tucked that fact away and simply listened to her thoughts on each person.

No decision was made between them and Crea didn't seem to mind his lack of helpful input—which was something of a relief. But they did agree that an interview process would be necessary and that it would be best to see how each governess interacted with the children. And so, by the time Crea was tucking away her pages in a folder and preparing to leave, Regis at least felt a little bit more in touch with what was happening in his household.

"I was going to ask Wes to help me with the interview process, as well," she said, as she paused at the door with the folder of papers held in front of her.

_Wes_. Yes, that did make sense. He was head of staff and he had every reason to be involved in this process.

So why didn't Regis feel better about it?

"I should like to be present as well," he said.

She hesitated. Because she didn't want him there?

"You're welcome, of course, but… I don't think we can conduct interviews at one in the morning…"

Ah. Was it one, already?

"Yes…" he admitted. "Well, I shall endeavor to arrange my schedule accordingly, then."

She smiled like she knew he would never manage it. "It's alright if you can't come; Wes and I will take care of things and I'll keep you updated. If you like…" she hesitated, then plowed onward, "I can wait up for you at night."

"Far be it from me to keep you from your sleep."

She laughed. "It's fine. I used to work night shift with the twins, remember?"

He did. It was the only reason they had met in the first place—a serendipitous encounter.

"Well, if you are certain it is not too much of an imposition, then I would like that very much," Regis said.

"Then I'll let you know." She smiled. And she left him standing there, remembering how empty his rooms were.


	7. Heir

For several days, Regis thought very little about governesses and interviews, except when he passed by Crea and Weskham together and stopped himself from doing something completely uncalled for. Mostly he was too occupied with the MTs in Cleigne to worry about domestic matters.

The last of summer wasted away with a few skirmishes on the border. They pushed back the imperials, but always it felt as if something was missing. Why would they not simply send in reinforcements? They must have had countless MTs; they could have flooded Cleigne and taken a solid foothold in the villages there. But they didn't.

Autumn rolled in, and with it came the rains. Whether for that reason or some other, the next push they made against the imperials was the last: after that the MTs withdrew on the same Magitek engines they had flown in on, leaving behind only scattered remains of their dead—if that was the right word to use—and whispers of why they had retreated. Lucis' own forces had taken an uncomfortable number of casualties. For now they were free to limp back to Insomnia and lick their wounds.

But even as the soldiers celebrated in bars across the kingdom, that night, the generals stood with the council—arms folded, brows furrowed, and tongues tied. Lucis was outmatched. Yet they had won. Why?

That was the uncomfortable question that plagued them through the cooler months. Without fail, someone raised it, either in court or council, whenever the subject turned toward the war with Niflheim. A few suggested that the trouble in Accordo was growing more tense—but news from inside Altissia was scarce and reports from their two surviving operatives were even more so. For the moment, then, it seemed they would simply have to deal with not knowing.

A few weeks passed and Crea and Weskham organized the first of their governess interviews. Though Crea, true to her word, made certain that Regis knew the time and place, he couldn't find the time to come by. Just as she had predicted. But that night when Regis returned, he found her waiting for him. Once more they sat together in his room while she filled in the details he had missed.

The governess they had met with was young—though Crea laughed to describe her as such, when she was younger still—and had gotten along well with Reina and Noctis. Noctis warmed to her more rapidly—as tended to be the case with the twins and any new acquaintances—but the governess had handled that with grace. Crea worried, however, that she wouldn't have the experience to teach at a level that Reina would be interested in. For the moment, she remained a possibility. But the fact that Crea had any misgivings at all seemed to Regis enough reason to discard that candidate entirely.

He told her as much, and she smiled—flattered—but didn't concede to striking the governess off the list entirely. Here was another stark difference between them. Where Regis expected perfection in his staff—because he had the resources to find the perfect candidate—Crea was willing to make do with what was available to her. But he did not press the point, remembering all too well what had happened the last time their vastly different backgrounds had come head-to-head. This was, he reminded himself, Crea's realm and he trusted her entirely. He also reminded her that they had the resources to continue the search.

The next interview was set for the next day—given that Crea wanted each candidate to meet with Reina and Noctis, it seemed prudent not to give them too many new people at one time—and Regis pencilled the time in on his calendar, so to speak.

Not that it made much of a difference. As was so often the case, the kingdom had other plans for him.

It was a universal sign of bad news when the council quieted immediately after the doors opened to admit Regis. More than half of him wanted to turn around and walk back out. The look that Clarus gave him—grim and resigned—did nothing to assuage that impulse.

In spite of the clear tension in the air—the brewing sensation of conflict, which made the hair on his arms stand all on end, like the instant before lightning struck—they tiptoed around whatever it was they wished to say. There was a great deal of 'good evening's and hemming and hawing and shuffling papers. When it grew too much to tolerate any longer, Regis looked expectantly to Clarus.

Clarus only shook his head—a miniscule motion, just a fraction of an inch to either side. Not something that he agreed with, then, and he preferred to keep his feet out of the muck. A promising start. Regis sighed and turned to the only other person at the table who would openly broach a difficult conversation topic.

Hamon met his gaze squarely, as if he had been expecting just that sign.

"Your Majesty," he said. "The council would like to move that an heir be named."

With everything going on inside and outside of Lucis,  _that_ was not what he had expected.

Silence fell. Everyone was staring at Regis, waiting for his response. Only years of experience and control kept him from clenching his fists on the arms of his chair and glaring back at them.

"And the reasoning?" Regis asked, voice tight.

"Tensions in the city, Your Majesty," Hamon said. "In these tumultuous times, the people of Lucis crave certainty. Yet a great uncertainty looms over their own capital."

"Surely, the simple fact that an heir exists ought be enough," Regis said. Did they really need to know precisely which one of his children would take the crown?

"It seems not to be, Sire," Aldebrand said. "This trouble in Accordo has even our own people roused about succession and government. They want to be certain that if and when the worst should come to pass, the same will not happen here. Even an internal power struggle is bound to spill out and affect the people."

"Perhaps, a simple image of a united royal family would do much to quell their fears, Your Majesty," Felice said. "But—forgive me for saying—you have not been seen in public with your children at all, and the press are beginning to speculate on why…"

It should have been enough for them to know he was working for their benefit—that he was unseen because his duty kept him that way. But no. That wasn't the way the monarchy worked and he knew that. He had been remiss with his public image, as of late—indeed, that of his whole family, since it was now his responsibility to see to Reina and Noctis' appearances, as well.

"That can be remedied, with some effort," Regis said. "But I will not blindly chain one of my children to a future on the throne."

"You shall have to, eventually, Your Majesty," Hamon said.

"When they are older and have some concept of what might await them," Regis said.

"With all due respect, Sire," Hamon said, "No heir has ever been given a choice in the matter of his inheritance."

Damn him and his damn truths. Beside that fact, Regis' defense looked ridiculous to them. But he refused to budge.

"I mean to change that," he said.

"Your Majesty, the crown is given by divine right," Felice said. "If you do not declare an heir, the people will begin to wonder if that doesn't reflect more deeply on—"

"Enough." It was Clarus who spoke in his stead, stopping the discussion in its tracks. "His Majesty has made a decision. Since when does this council question that?"

Silence fell. Regis didn't give Clarus the grateful look that he wanted to, but stared ahead, instead. Later. They would talk later.

It took a few moments for discussion to resume as normal and for Regis to stop silently fuming. But he was nothing if not adept at compartmentalizing; he put those concerns aside and fixed on more current events. By the time the council adjourned for the night, Regis was no more inclined to change his mind—but he was feeling less compelled to strangle anyone who brought the subject up. Which was just as well, given that Clarus followed him from the council chamber for just that purpose.

"I doubt that they will back down so easily," Clarus said, once they were walking through the halls alone. "If we do not offer them something more solid, this discussion will return; you know it as well as I."

Regis made a sound of acknowledgement, but nothing else. He was  _not_ going to declare an heir. The council and the people could ask for it as often as they pleased, but Regis would defend his childrens' freedom to his last breath.

They walked on in silence for several moments before Clarus spoke again. "Would it be so intolerable to make a decision?"

Regis stopped walking and turned to glare at him. "How can you ask me such a question? How could anyone make a decision like that, knowing nothing of the people these children will grow into? Do you realize what it could do to them, to grow up knowing that their own father chose one of them to lead and the other to follow? No. I will not make that choice, Clarus."

He resumed walking, his pace more brisk with agitation. Clarus fell into step beside him.

"Then we must think of a way to placate them," Clarus said at length.

Regis waved a dismissive hand, too irked to even consider a compromise, just then. "Think of one, then. I care not."

He stepped aboard the lift that waited to take him to the upper levels, leaving Clarus outside. "Otherwise, tell them it is a non-negotiable topic."

His last sight, as the doors closed, was of Clarus looking tired and more than a little exasperated with him. Regis was too irate to even feel contrite about that.

He tugged at his coat and smoothed his hands over his hair, pulling off his crown and depositing it in his breast pocket. Then he unclasped his collar and yanked free the buckles that held his cape and pauldron in place. When the elevator arrived in the upper levels, he tossed the lot onto one of the sofas in the main lounge and walked past.

He was through being king for the day. For once he wanted to be a father to his children and nothing else. All he wanted was to gather them up in his arms and curl up in bed with them, forgetting—if only for a few hours—about the rest of the world.

Reina and Noctis' rooms were—as expected—dark save for the nightlight.

And Crea was asleep in the rocking chair.

He had forgotten about the interview. Again.

Hell.

He entered the room and approached their beds—which were arranged in an L in the far corner—but was startled to find Reina's bed was empty. His heart stopped momentarily while his mind raced. Where could she possibly have gone? Crea must have been here all night, surely—

And then his eyes properly adjusted to the dark and resolved  _two_ sleeping children in Noctis' bed.

Regis dropped to his knees beside them. The king couldn't kneel on the floor in the nursery—that would have been improper—but a father could. He could tuck his children in more tightly and lean over to give each of them a scratchy kiss on the head. He might even have crawled in with them—never mind the fact that the little bed was just barely big enough for two of them—but…

"Regis..?"

He didn't turn when Crea spoke, nor when she rose and approached from behind. He couldn't pull his eyes away from those precious faces. She stopped behind him, close enough that he could hear the rustle of clothing as she tugged her sleeves.

"Sometimes…" He said in an undertone. "I almost wish they were someone else's children, so that they might have a chance at a normal life."

Her hand landed on his shoulder. He did look up at her, then, in time to see surprise fade into concern. He had no notion of what his face looked like, then—but whatever she saw there seemed to make up her mind.

She grasped both his shoulders, pulling him gently back. "Come on. Let's talk."

He surprised even himself by complying. He let her take his arm and lead him out of the nursery, down the quiet hall beyond, and up to the double doors that lead to his rooms. Once they were closed inside, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the sofa, then he sat—elbows on knees and head in his hands. If he was just a father, he could sit in his vest and shirtsleeves and not feel underdressed.

Gods, he needed a drink.

The sofa shifted when she sat down beside him. She smoothed her hand over his shoulders and upper back, but she didn't say anything. Not until he did. It took him a full minute to do so.

"The council wishes me to declare an heir and not a single one of them understands my opposition."

Her hand stopped moving. "They want you to  _choose_ one of the twins to be your heir?"

The simple outrage in her voice made him lift his head. He remained leaning forward on his elbows, but looked back at her over his shoulder. Here was a woman who loved his children as dearly as he did. She didn't care about politics or public outrage or keeping people happy. She cared about those two children sleeping in the other room and that was it.

"Yes," he said.

"That's absurd! Can't you just tell them no?"

He smiled in spite of himself—bitter, but a smile—and looked back down at his hands. "I have. And yet, they will continue to apply pressure and even Clarus supports some sort of compromise. But I fear that the effect it will have on Noctis and Reina, were I to choose one of them, will be detrimental."

"Of course it would!" Crea said, now incensed. "Children are instinctive and observant. Regardless of whether or not you view being heir as a positive thing, it  _is_ a substantial thing that has been given based on nothing at all. Your heir would develop either a sense of entitlement or an irrational fear of random loss and the other would be either bitter and jealous or feel unimportant and unloved. Or all of the above!"

If he had needed any more reason to stand his ground, this was it. For as long as he had known her, Crea had impressed him with her willingness to prioritize his children over all else. She was unswayed by political opinions and had no ulterior motives… but she  _did_ know a great deal about children.

This time when he looked back at her with a smile, it was a real one.

"I shall tell them that my child development expert recommends strongly against it," he said.

"You had better!" She glared at him—though he recognized it wasn't  _him_ she wore that look for—and for a moment he saw the fierce maternal instinct to protect her children in her eyes. Then she remembered whom she was speaking to and it cooled. She sighed and hunched forward to put her elbows on her knees in a mirror of his position. Her shoulder brushed against his as she did so. "You won't cave, will you?"

"No." He was still smiling distantly, though he had forgotten why. "I shall stand my ground for the both of us. For all four of us."

"Good." She leaned closer—just enough to apply pressure to his arm and almost imperceptible. "Why does it matter to them, anyway? It isn't as if we need someone to take the throne—not for a long time, I hope."

"For appearance's sake, primarily." Regis shook his head and sighed. "Though I suppose there are practical considerations as well. Traditionally, the heir builds his—or her—court and inner circle as he grows up. Some of that will happen naturally as friendships form, but some is best not left to chance. The King's Shield, for instance, is groomed from as young an age as the heir—and the Royal Adviser as well."

"Can't they do that without knowing which twin will take the throne?" Crea asked.

He turned just his head to look at her and realized for the first time how extraordinarily close they were sitting.

"I mean, Reina and Noctis will grow up together—probably do most things together," Crea continued when he didn't immediately respond. "Even if  _one_ of them was chosen to be heir… the other one would be around the Shield-in-training or Adviser-in-training as much as the heir would be. So what difference does it make if there's a little ambiguity for a few years?"

"I think…" Regis said slowly. "I may fire my council and appoint you in their place."

She laughed. "Don't you dare. I  _hate_ politics and I  _definitely_ don't want to be in charge of the kingdom. Two children is more than enough for me, thank you very much."

"That is a shame," Regis said. "Nevertheless, I shall take your idea and present it as my own. That is what kings are meant to do, is it not?"

"Oh, of course. Plagiarism is the first tenant of monarchy."

"It may be just the compromise Clarus wanted." Regis stared out the window for a moment, then looked back to her with a smile. "Thank you," he said earnestly. "You are a Godsend."

Crea flushed, but was saved the trouble of formulating a response when the grandfather clock in the other room chimed one in the morning.

She glanced at the doorway, then straightened. "I didn't even tell you about the governess we interviewed!"

He almost asked her to stay and tell him anyway, but his brain caught up with him before he opened his mouth. It was one in the morning and they were both in the habit of rising before dawn. She would need her sleep.

"Tomorrow, then," he said, instead.

"Tomorrow I'll have a second one to tell you about," she said dryly.

"Well, then I shall simply have to come earlier."

She laughed. "And cactuar will fly."

He walked her to the door and bid her goodnight. And though, once she had left, he still wanted to crawl into Noctis' bed as Reina had done, he  _did_ feel substantially more secure in his position. Sometimes all one needed was an ally.

The following morning when they crossed paths in the nursery, they exchanged a smile that meant more than good morning. When he left to meet with the council, it was with the assurance that he could stand his ground on this and that he had made the correct choice for his children.

He surprised everyone on the council—including Clarus—by bringing up the subject of succession himself.

"I wish to make it abundantly clear that I have not changed my mind—nor shall I. The matter of which of my children shall inherit the kingdom is not open to debate and I will hear no more on the subject. However, I am willing to consider certain pragmatic issues, which relate to the heir. Whosoever inherits the crown will require a retinue." Regis spread his hands. "I should welcome discussion on  _that_ topic."

A moment passed while his words sank in. Then Clarus sat forward in his chair. "Your Majesty, my Gladiolus is but a few years older than Prince Noctis and Princess Reina. The Amicitia family would be honored to continue the time-honored tradition of serving as Shield to the Caelums."

Regis glanced around the table. "Have we any objections to the appointment of Gladiolus Amicitia as future Shield?"

Silence. Which was more or less what he had expected. Gladiolus was the perfect candidate; his family was—clearly—well-respected and traditionally held that position in any case. That he was only three years older than the twins made matters all the more convenient. Regis gave Clarus a tiny nod and sat back in his chair.

"Then that, at least, is settled," Clarus said. "Gladiolus will serve as Shield to the heir—we might also open suggestions for an advisor to the heir."

"Forgive me, but  _you_ hold both positions, Master Clarus—is it not possible that your son will do the same?" Felice asked.

"It  _is_ …" Clarus hesitated only a moment, glancing to Regis, who indicated his support with another nod. "But circumstances at the time were… unique. If we have an alternative, it would be better for all involved if the Shield and the Hand are  _not_ the same person."

This was where they reached a sticking point. The problem was not, precisely, that Lucis was short on any candidates for the position, but rather that the opening for Royal Advisor happened only once in a generation and everyone at the table saw it as an opportunity to wedge their own values into the most powerful non-hereditary seat in the kingdom.

Twelve different candidates were pushed forward. Faster than Regis could eat his words, the council was in deadlock over the matter, with no one willing to budge an inch. Worse, still, in the weeks that followed, the candidate pool  _grew_ rather than shrinking. It was as if each councillor searched out further options between meetings in the hopes that a wider pool would lead  _someone_ else to side with them. It would have been a substantial improvement, truth be told, if even two councillors agreed on one child.

Most of the names were children of well-known families in the city—some councillors had children, or nephews and nieces, or even grandchildren whom they nominated. Others chose children from households that were politically aligned with them. Others still chose children from households that they wished to have in their debt.

It was, as Cor later said, a massive clusterfuck.

He may not have been so eloquent as Weskham, but he certainly had a way of summing things up in a few, succinct words.

But the council disagreeing was about as predictable as dawn; Regis let them argue about it—preferably while he was not present—because it kept their minds off the issue of who would be heir. And that, in the end, was all he had wanted.


	8. Rainy Days

After weeks of interviews, Crea made a final decision on a governess. Though Regis had insisted on hearing about each candidate she considered, he had very little to contribute in the end. The fact was that he knew little about what to look for in a governess, but he wanted to keep abreast of such an important development in his childrens' lives. At least, that was the excuse he gave for keeping every midnight meeting with Crea, no matter how tired he was at the end of the day.

The governess chosen was a woman—some ten years older than Regis—by the name of Agnys Klauser. She was, Crea assured him, qualified to teach music and numerous academic subjects on a wide range of levels. If, as Crea hoped, she meshed well with the children, there was no reason why Agnys could not stay on as Reina and Noctis grew older. They would, after all, require a governess someday, regardless of whether or not Reina remained interested in music.

And so began the prince and princess' first lessons. Noctis was included as well, given that anything Reina had, he wanted. They began with the violin—and Regis had never seen such tiny violins as those.

Fall came, along with persistent rains and grey days, broken only by the turning of the leaves. It was one step better than winter, but Regis found himself dreading the season to come, anyway. He gave more of his mornings to Cor and sat longer nights in the nursery the colder the weather grew. Neither of those things could warm the chill that crept over him as the days marched steadily on toward December and his mind dwelled ever more often on Aulea.

He was almost thankful for long days at work. At least that gave him no space to think in and usually left him so exhausted at the end of the day that he had little choice but to collapse into bed. Unfortunately—though he was loath to regret things running smoothly—most of the larger problems that had persisted through the summer were coming to a close, if not already concluded.

The empire had yet to mount another attack and, though that put all of them on edge, that eliminated all war preparation and conferences with his generals. They had little, intermittent news from Accordo; for the moment the whole council seemed to agree it was best not to interfere any further. And so they occupied their time arguing about the future Royal Advisor, instead—which Regis did his best to avoid. Altogether, this meant Regis had  _fewer_ troubles to occupy him as the season turned.

It didn't seem to equate to any extra energy, however. Some nights he went to bed tired and woke tired. Those were the days when he felt the pull of the Wall most keenly. It was such a persistent sensation that if he didn't think on it he could hardly feel it—usually. Other days it was like a hundred thousand fish hooks stuck in his soul and pulling every which way.

And it was, in a way. Strictly speaking, the magic that the Wall was built out of came from the crystal. But Regis was the conduit and the energy source all in one. He was what pulled the magic from the crystal and formed it into a shield to protect the Crown City. He was what held it in place. He was what fed it.

But he forced himself out of bed, tired or not, and went about his daily business. It was obvious to Cor, Regis had no doubt—those were the days when he did most poorly. Not that he did  _well_ on the other days. Gods, he was getting old. But he did his best, whatever that happened to mean at the time.

One gloomy morning in November, he woke too early and paced the halls until his children woke. The pounding of rain followed wherever he went. It assailed the windows in great sheets whenever the wind picked up and turned the whole world outside a blurry grey. From up so high, he could hardly even see the smattering of color from red and orange leaves. Not through the rain. Everything was just grey.

He hadn't intended to stop in front of the windows and watch it come down. He hadn't intended to lose himself in thoughts—memories of bleak days closed up indoors, trying to bring some sort of cheer home to Aulea. But he did both of those things. In fact, he was so deep in reminiscence that he hardly even registered the arrival of the lift and the opening of the elevator doors. Not until he heard Crea's voice.

"Regis?"

He stirred, turning to look at her and put on his best attempt at a smile. "Good morning."

"Is something wrong?"

He shook his head. "I dislike this weather."

"The rain?" She asked, incredulous. "Why?"

He turned back to the window, not immediately responding. He didn't see the city, when he looked out. He didn't see the rain. He saw Aulea's face and tear tracks. She came to stand beside him instead of leaving him there alone and reporting for duty in the nursery.

"It is cold and wet and dismal," he said, at length.

She didn't say anything. Perhaps because she was waiting for the real answer. She had been spending too much time with Weskham.

"The rain and snow always kept Aulea indoors. She hated it and so I hated it. And still I hate it. What joy it there to be found in confinement?"

"Is that how you think of it? Even though you  _could_ go out?"

"And do what?" He looked at her. "Stand in the rain and be soaked and frozen to the bone?"

She gave him a curious look with her head tilted to one side, like she was trying to see into his mind. Then she smiled tentatively. "Do you have any time, today?"

Regis considered. The council was still deliberating over the advisor to the heir, the empire had retreated from their borders, and they had had no news from Accordo, recently. Most other things went quite smoothly with or without his presence.

"Something might be arranged," he said.

"This morning?"

"If you wish."

Her smiled brightened. "Right after breakfast!" And she turned toward the nursery without another word, presumably to see that breakfast was had.

He followed after her, curiosity overcoming his melancholy—for the moment. Once he was ensconced in the twins' morning ritual, that distracted him, instead. He might have hugged them each a little tighter than normal, a little longer than usual, but Noctis and Reina had a magical way of making him forget everything else in the world and simply be grateful for his life.

They shared breakfast—the four of them—and, once faces were wiped and hands were clean, Regis helped Crea get both twins into warm clothes. Or, more accurately, he supervised while Noctis insisted on putting his clothes on himself, and Crea—looking torn between amusement and exasperation—rearranged everything once she was through with Reina. Had it been left to Regis, Noctis would have gone outside with his shirt on inside out (and possibly backwards), his shoes on the wrong feet, and his hair uncombed. That was, after all, how Noctis wanted it.

This was probably why Regis was not in charge of such things.

Crea set Noctis straight, which he complained about loudly, and Reina tugged at Regis' pant leg. She was dressed warmly in a little raincoat and sensible pants tucked into a pair of rain boots, which had little coeurls on them. Though her coat had a hood, she also wore a little cap with tiny cat ears; her hair stuck out from underneath, now long enough to brush past her shoulders.

"Daddy," she said, in the sweetest little voice, "We are going on a walk."

He had gathered that much, already—though it still seemed an odd idea to him—but he pretended to be surprised, nonetheless.

"In the rain?" He asked.

"Mhm."

"But you shall be soaked!"

Her little face split into a bright grin, so big that her eyes shut and her cheeks puckered. She nodded, as if this was the greatest result she could possibly imagine. Regis didn't have to pretend to be surprised at  _that_.

Crea was watching him when he looked back up. Noctis was looking more like a little boy and less like a little alien. He was also looking very grumpy about it.

"A different perspective for you," she said. And she took Noctis' hand and lead him out of the room. Reina went skipping after, leaving Regis little choice but to do the same or be left behind. He elected not to skip, but he did take Reina's hand and earned one of those smiles in return.

They went out that way, without stopping for umbrellas. Regis refrained from asking what the purpose of rain boots was if they were going to be filled with water from the top, anyway. They  _were_ awfully cute boots.

The garden was, predictably, soaked and deserted. The path that wound between hedges and past flowerbeds was littered with puddles and scattered with fallen leaves. The grass was more of a bog, and the flowers had all long since faded. Regis stopped just outside the door, while he was still sheltered by the overhang. Reina did not. She kept marching forward and when, inevitably, she reached the end of his arm, she wriggled her hand until he released her.

She skip-hopped down the garden path until she reached the first puddle. At the edge she paused, bent her knees as if to prepare for a mighty leap, and jumped straight into the puddle. Over the steady thrum of rain and the occasional rumble of distant thunder, Reina's laughter seemed to fill the entire garden. She stepped and she stomped and she hopped and she jumped until her little coeurl boots were spattered with mud and dirty water, and her pants just the same. And then she moved on to the next puddle.

By that time, Noctis had caught up with her. This puddle they tackled together and came out twice as muddy for having twice the number of feet stomping in it. They laughed. And they  _laughed_. And even though he was standing out in the rain in his wool suit—which was a terrible idea, incidentally—Regis found himself smiling along with them. How could he not?

Crea was laughing at him again. He didn't even mind. He minded less when he discovered she  _had_ , in fact, brought an umbrella.

"You think of everything, after all," Regis commented as she opened it and offered it to him. He took it automatically.

"It's in my job description." She flashed him a smile and stepped out from under the overhang and into the rain.

Regis followed after her with a sound of objection. "And yet, you have insufficient sense to stay out of the rain."

"Sense? What sense demands that I stay out of the rain? It's just  _water_."

Yes. Well. It was water coming out of the sky and it was cold and people tended  _not_ to want their clothes soaked. Something told him she would dismiss all of those things as quickly. He caught up and walked closer to her, anyway, holding the umbrella over both of them. Ahead, Reina and Noctis danced in the rain; picked up handfuls of wet, muddy leaves, and threw them at each other; and took turns jumping in every puddle they passed. They were going to be filthy.

"This isn't meant for two people, you know," Crea commented wryly. "Your shoulder is getting wet."

A glance told him she was right. He brushed water off his shoulder with a sound of annoyance, but if he moved the umbrella any farther over then Crea would be dripped on, instead. Crea laughed at him again. She pushed the umbrella away, so that if covered all of him and only most of her.

" _Some_ of us aren't allergic to the rain," she said. "You children seem to do just fine with it."

Indeed. They had stooped to play in a large puddle a few yards ahead; they squatted on either side and splashed water across at each other until both were speckled from head to toe with muddy water.

"I thought mothers were meant to prevent this sort of thing," Regis said. "They are covered in mud!"

"Luckily, they're standing in the rain and it will all wash off in a minute," Crea retorted. "Besides, I'm not their mother."

"You may as well be."

It took a moment for him to realize what he had said and why she was looking at him like that. Then he flushed faintly. "I only meant—"

"I know what you meant." She smiled.

They walked through the gardens that way for a time, indulging in comfortable small talk that had nothing to do with the kingdom or politics and a great deal to do with Regis' two favorite people in the world. Crea told him of the governess, Agnys, and of music lessons: boths twins seemed, if nothing else, intrigued by both Agnys and the tiny violins. Noctis had broken one, which seemed a risk of giving Noctis anything at all, much less something fragile, but Agnys had hardly batted an eye at that. Nothing, Crea said, seemed to phase that woman. If Noctis grew up to be the sort of little boy who caught frogs and put them into people's beds, his governess would be the sort of woman who rescued them straight into Noctis'.

Throughout, Noctis and Reina went ahead and explored every inch of muddy pavement, rearranged every wet leaf, and stomped in every puddle. In spite of their rain boots and jackets, they were both soaked and muddy. They were both, without any doubts, elated about that. Regis had hardly heard so much laughter in a month.

Eventually, Noctis decided that stomping in puddles was less fun than pulling his sister into them. He seized her under her arms and dragged her off her feet, laughing like a little madman.

"No!" Reina squirmed and kicked, but he hauled her determinedly along.

"Noctis, let go of Reina," Crea called.

Noctis paused, looked back at them and—as he so often did, these days—utterly disregarded the instruction. He heaved and Reina dropped backward into the nearest puddle.

" _Noctis_." Crea had ducked out from under the umbrella nearly before Reina landed.

Reina remained, unmoving, laying on her back in a muddy puddle for a full second before she began to whine. Before Regis had taken two steps, she was crying outright. Crea passed by Noctis to scoop her up and give her a kiss before depositing her in Regis' arms. He juggled the umbrella with his tearful three-year-old and somehow managed to hold onto both of them.

"Ah, Reina, my dear…" He hugged her close and she laid her head on his shoulder and bawled. "What happened? Was Noctis cruel to you?"

"Ye-es…" That one little word, split by tears and trailed out over too many syllables, broke his heart.

"That was truly inappropriate of him, wasn't it?" He shuffled his hold on the umbrella to free one hand and brush her tears away. Not that it mattered much, given that she was wet through with rainwater and mud, anyway. "Are you alright?"

She sniffled a few more times, letting him dry her mud-streaked cheeks, and finally nodded. "Mm-hm."

Crea returned after giving Noctis a stern talking to. Her knees were streaked with mud and she held a demure and—apparently—contrite Noctis.

"Noctis," she said, "Do you have something to say to Reina?"

Noctis stared at his hands and mumbled something too indistinct to hear.

"Well if you want to apologize, then you'll have to apologize  _to Reina_ ," Crea said.

He looked up, his little mouth twisting and puckering, and finally tried again. "I'm sorry I put you in a puddle, Rei-Rei."

Reina had straightened to look at him. Regis pulled her dirty fingers out of her mouth and she didn't object.

"Well, what do you think, my dear?" Regis asked. "Shall we forgive him?"

She stared at Noctis for a moment. Then she nodded and put her fingers back in her mouth.

Regis gave up on them. "And what shall we say to him?"

"I fo-give 'oo, Ock," she said, around the fingers in her mouth.

Crea shrugged. "Close enough."

Noctis, sensing the uncomfortable apology was through, squirmed to be put down. When Crea did so, he ran off to stomp in the next puddle with a vengeance. Reina, on the other hand, remained attached to Regis' shoulder, looking very solemn.

"Well, at least I have succeeded in covering your suit with mud," Crea said. "That must count for something."

And indeed, everything that Reina had touched was now smeared with the same mud that seemed to cover her from head to toe. Her butt and back were completely soaked, after being tossed into a puddle, and Regis could feel that soaking through his sleeve, already.

He sighed.

"So I suppose you don't need this, anymore." Crea reached out and yanked the umbrella from his hand, capering away before he could do more than make a sound of surprise.

Everything. Was. Wet.

She was ten feet away with Noctis at the puddle before she folded the umbrella and turned around to laugh at Regis and the stunned look on his face. Reina twisted in his arms to look up at his face. She pulled her dirty fingers from her mouth and prodded at a raindrop as it fell down his cheek and soaked into his beard. And she giggled. Even Noctis had abandoned his play and now stood in his puddle with his hands over his mouth and his little face twisted in amusement.

"Daddy, you're all wet!" Reina patted his shoulders as the rain turned his wool suit into a wet sheep.

And still he stood. Stunned, wet, and a little bit cold. He blinked at his daughter, with her little, sodden, kitty-cat cap—still giggling at him—and he couldn't help himself.

He laughed, too.

They walked the rest of the way through the gardens without an umbrella. When they returned to the Citadel, looking like a family of drowned cats, Regis didn't even want to know what the servants thought. They stared, as dumbfounded as Regis had been at the loss of his umbrella, before remembering to bow. And he passed through with Reina on one arm, and Noctis and Crea beside him, leaving a trail of muddy footprints all the way up to the upper levels.

Once there, Regis begged a few minutes to get changed out of his wet suit and into a dry one; Crea accepted, on the condition that he swore to return afterward. He did, and found the three of them out in the main lounge.

"Well, Your Majesty." Crea sat on the sofa, pouring a steaming cup of tea on the tray laid out before her while Reina and Noctis hovered on either side of her, watching intently. "Can I interest you in a cup of tea? Or will you be daring and try the chocolate?"

"Hot chocolate?" Regis drew close enough to discover that it was not, in fact, a cup of tea. There were, however, two teapots on the tray, along with an assortment of little cakes from the kitchen.

Crea flashed him a grin, fitted a lid onto the plastic cup she had just poured, and passed it to Noctis. "Be careful, it's hot!"

Noctis took the cup in both hands and danced away. He was absolutely going to burn himself.

"Well?" Crea poured a second cup and gave it to Reina.

"I shall defer to your expertise, and drink whatever you feel is best in this situation."

She poured two porcelain cups of hot chocolate and patted the space on the sofa beside her. Regis sat and had no sooner received his cup before he was forced to rearrange himself to accommodate Reina when she decided she needed to sit in his lap. After that, they sat in content silence for several minutes, watching Noctis run circles around the lounge. He had no right to have so much energy after a morning playing outside.

The hot chocolate was so rich, Regis could hardly finish his cup. Crea seemed to have no such trouble; she drank two, and when she caught the look he gave her, she flushed and confessed to having a sweet tooth.

Noctis continued his rounds for a few more minutes, narrowly missing the edge of the coffee table with his head each time he passed. Regis winced at every near miss. By the time Noctis had burned off whatever excess energy currently possessed him and climbed onto the couch between Regis and Crea, Regis had new respect for Crea. The mere stress of worrying if one twin or the other was going to accidentally knock their own head in (or the other's head, for that matter) would have had Regis losing his hair in less than a month. And yet, Crea appeared hale and healthy. At least he had no doubts as to why she was in such favorable shape, if she chased Noctis around all day.

They had been sitting, listening to nothing but the steady patter of rain on the windows, and alternatively watching the weather or the rapidly fading twins, for some fifteen minutes before Crea broke the silence.

"Well?" She looked expectantly at him.

Regis raised his eyebrows. Had he forgotten a conversation they had been having?

"Have we succeeded in giving you a happy rainy day memory?" She asked.

A happy rainy day. So that was what this was about. A few hours ago, he would have said there was no such thing, and yet…

He smoothed his hand over Reina's hair. She was tangled up with Noctis in what would undoubtedly have been an uncomfortable position for any adult, but she snuggled closer to Regis and slept on.

"Do you know." Regis looked up at Crea. "I believe that you have."

If rainy days were really just sunny days filled with puddles, and puddles were the simplest form of joy and laughter imaginable, and if every wet suit ended in dry clothes and a hot drink in front of the fire where pure joy faded into tired contentment…

Then perhaps rainy days weren't so bad, after all.


	9. Together

In what remained of the autumn, Regis shared many more wet walks in the gardens with the twins. He stopped complaining when Cor wanted to take their morning run outside in the rain; the first time he returned from such a run, dripping wet and more than a little done in, it had been to find hot tea waiting for him in the royal lounge. He didn't have to ask to know Crea had ordered it for him.

December was still a struggle. For some reason it was more difficult to sleep in his own room, empty as it was, the closer the days drew to the anniversary of Aulea's death. He found himself spending long nights in his study, more and more often.

Everyone noticed, doubtless. He wasn't nearly as subtle as he fancied himself. Weskham and Clarus had surely already had a covert discussion on the subject of what to do about him. That was probably why Avunculus was more persistently present throughout those nights. He admitted nothing and Regis didn't ask him, but they both knew he made excuses to be around on Weskham's or Clarus' instructions. Most nights, Regis shooed him away and relegated him to standing in the hall.

On the day before the anniversary of Aulea's death, Regis did his absolute best to lose himself in his work and forget what day it was—or even what month or year. It worked, to a degree. He let Cor run him ragged through the rain in the morning; he stopped to kiss his children good morning—though they were a painful reminder, today, of how much she had never gotten to see; he put on his kingly persona and went to court, pretending before all of Lucis that he was still a whole man, and not a man with a missing heart; he joined Cor and Clarus combing through the latest intelligence that their two surviving operatives in Accordo had sent—all three of them knew there was no reason for Regis to be present, but neither Clarus nor Cor made a comment; he met with his generals to hear plans for fortifying their western coast while Niflheim's attention was elsewhere.

And then, after all that, he submitted himself to several hours of argument over who the next royal advisor would be. He had hoped that, given enough time, the council would slowly give up the more extreme options and slowly gravitate toward neutral ground. And they had.

Sort of.

Unfortunately, there were still three different factions who could find no common ground between their candidates, and it seemed as if they had combed through every child of noble blood in the entire kingdom. Gods forbid they consider a child who wasn't going to inherit her father's business or his mother's title. And Gods forbid Regis suggest such a thing in front of them.

The endless argument grated on him. They were in a deadlock and, while no one had suggested that he choose an heir in months, this whole thing was a massive waste of everyone's time. His mind drifted. It landed, predictably, on Aulea. He didn't even noticed he had shut his eyes and was pinching the bridge of his nose until Clarus touched his arm.

One look was enough. Clarus stopped the discussion in its tracks and called an end to the council meeting. Neither of them spoke a word on the way out; Clarus didn't even object when Regis led them to his study, rather than upstairs. Much as he knew this was a habit he had struggled to break in the first place and that falling back on it was as dangerous as giving into despair, he couldn't bring himself to face his own room. Not right now.

So he sought refuge in his study, instead. Avunculus was there, already.

"A drink, Sire?" Avun asked.

Regis dropped onto the lounge. "Yes. Something stronger than wine."

"Regis…" Clarus followed him in, but didn't sit down.

Regis managed a smile for him, though it must have looked melancholy. "I know. I shall not sleep here, tonight. But you must allow me a few days of mourning when I do so well, the remainder of the year."

Clarus returned he smile, lips tight. "I understand. We all have to bleed out the pain, sometimes… just… don't let it become you."

Avun returned with a short glass of amber liquid. He offered one to Clarus, but Clarus declined.

"I swear I will not," Regis said. "Now go. Your own family waits for you."

"What of yours?"

"Asleep—or they had better be."

Clarus seemed to accept that. He left, though reluctantly, clapping Regis on the shoulder and promising to see him tomorrow.

"Is there anything else you require, Your Majesty?" Avun asked.

Regis drained his glass and held it out in silence. Once Avun had refilled it, he sighed, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees and stared at the scotch. By rights he should have been sick of it, after he had almost killed himself that first year. Perhaps it was some masochistic delight, like playing with fire.

He tried to think about something besides Aulea: the war, Accordo, the council, the endless debate over royal advisor.  _Anything_.

Regis shook his head and finally responded to Avun's question. "Not unless you are keeping a nonpartisan child up your sleeve."

"Sire?"

But… he was, wasn't he?

Regis straightened, fixing Avun with a pensive look. "Your nephew. What age is he?"

"He will be six in February, Your Majesty."

Five years old! Just a few more than Noctis and Reina. Certainly not  _too_ old; Clarus was five years older than Regis.

"And how do you find him? A sharp young lad?" Regis asked.

"Indubitably, Sire. Well-mannered and ever eager with his studies."

"Well enough to be Hand of the Heir?"

Avunculus' eyes widened. "The royal adviser, Your Majesty?  _My nephew_?"

"Yes…" Regis considered for a moment before shaking his head with a sigh. "It would never work. The council shall never accept a Scientia as the Hand."

Avun laughed nervously. "We are but humble servants to the throne, my king."

That was certainly true. Their service to the Caelums went back nearly as far as the Amicitia's tradition as Shields. Generation after generation had given faithfully to the royal family: loyal attendants—the best of them. And wasn't that precisely what the royal advisor was? One who stood beside the king faithfully, loyally, unwaveringly, and served him by managing that which was beyond his reach?

The council would have to consider him, if Regis was the one to put his name forward.

"Remind me of his name," Regis said.

"Ignis, Sire. Ignis Stupeo Scientia."

"And if he were considered as royal adviser for the future monarch… what thoughts would you have?"

Avunculus' eyes bulged. "I would be  _honored_ , Your Majesty."

Regis nodded slowly, then he drained his drink once more, stood, and handed the empty glass to Avun. "I can promise nothing—the council will deliberate and I have few doubts that they will disapprove on principle. But I will try."

He left Avun standing there, holding his empty glass and looking dumbstruck. Somehow, having made a decision about  _something_  fortified Regis to face his rooms. For once he didn't stop in the nursery on his way past—the lights were off, but he feared he would stay if he paused at all. He would see them awake tomorrow.

The lights were on in his rooms—which was not unusual, given that someone was usually by to stir up the fire before he returned. What  _was_ unusual was Crea sitting in one of his armchairs, looking more than a little uncomfortable.

She leapt to her feet as soon as she saw him. "It wasn't my idea."

He froze in the doorway. "What was not your idea?"

"Sitting in your room—I mean, obviously—but Master Amicitia came by and he said that you were in a mood and that maybe the twins might cheer you up, so…"

Either she was making no sense or his brain was refusing to comprehend. Crea stared at him for a moment, before realizing he still had no idea what was going on. Then she nodded her head toward the open door to his bedroom. From where he stood, he could just see his bed, lit by flickering firelight. Reina and Noctis were curled up in a little knot, right in the middle.

He left the hall door open and went to them. Noctis held Reina around the neck in what might, in less affectionate circumstances, be called a headlock. They were both fast asleep, wearing matching chocobo onesies—complete with beaks on the hoods.

Crea had followed him only as far as the doorway. She stood and tugged at the sleeves of her sweater, waiting for some indication from him.

"Clarus is a wiser man than I by far," Regis said at last, keeping his voice low.

Crea smiled. "I'll leave you with them, then."

"Wait—" It occurred to him that he had not spent a night with his children in almost two years. And he had  _never_ had them on his own. "Will they be alright through the night?"

"They usually sleep until morning after one of them has climbed into the other's bed."

"But if I should need you…"

That surprised her. Small wonder. Wasn't the king meant to have everything under control? And yet, he couldn't even make it through one night with two toddlers?

"I… suppose I can stay nearby," she said. "I've slept in the nursery often enough, anyway."

"You are welcome to remain here, if you prefer."

She flushed. "Um… better if I stay in the nursery. Goodnight, Regis."

"Goodnight, Crea."

And she fled, or so it seemed to him. It wasn't until later, when he slid into bed beside his children and pulled the blankets up to their little chins that it occurred to him  _why_.

Fool. How could he invite a young woman to sleep in his rooms and  _not_ see how that might make her uncomfortable? He really was very out of touch with the real world, these days. Well. He would simply have to apologize in the morning.

That night he fell asleep, for the first time in three years, in a bed that was neither empty nor cold. And his only regret, as he wrapped his arms around them and felt them both snuggle closer, was that Aulea had never experienced this.

The next morning he woke near dawn in a wiggling bed. Any in Lucis would have been astounded to hear that his twins were three years old and this was the first time he had ever experienced the parents' alarm clock.

"Daddy! Wake up, Daddy!"

Two little hands grasped his shirt, pushing and pulling at him. No. Four little hands. And the toddlers attached to the hands were bouncing in the bed and giggling.

Regis groaned and blinked groggily up at the canopy. Two little heads popped into view.

"Wake up, Daddy!"

"Ugh, little imps!" Regis gathered them both up into his arms and crushed them against his chest. "Is this the price I must pay for sharing my bed?"

Both of them giggled and squirmed in his arms; Regis planted a scratchy kiss on each little head and released them.

"Daddy, we slept in  _your_ bed!" Reina said.

"You  _did_ —and do you know, I think I may fire Clarus for it."

It was easier to drag himself out of bed when the bed was wiggling. It was harder to do absolutely everything else with four extra hands trying to help. They followed him, little chocobo chicks, and insisted on holding his crown and his cufflinks, and on sitting on the bathroom counter while he tried to get his hair to lay flat. Eventually he gave up—Weskham would fix it later, anyway—and instead committed to a morning workout of spinning each child above his head, over and over, as often as they could say 'again!'

Someone knocked on his door.

And he remembered he was supposed to be a king, instead of just a father.

And he remembered that Aulea had died three years ago, and had never seen their children walk or talk or dance around in their little chocobo pajamas.

Sometimes he thought it was preferable to be out of touch with the real world.

He settled Reina on his hip—though she whined to fly again—and went to answer the door. He caught sight of himself in the mirror on the way. Well, at least he was dressed and all the buttons on his suit lined up. That was about the best he could say.

Clarus was outside. He glanced Regis over, taking in his disheveled hair, bare feet, and missing jacket. And he laughed. "Now  _that_ is what I expect a father to look like, first thing in the morning."

He would know. But at least Clarus only had the one son—when the adults outnumbered the children, it must have been substantially easier to get dressed in the morning. If that was the price Regis paid for twins, he would do so gladly.

"Well, Weskham will soon put you right—won't you Wes?" He called over his shoulder. "I've brought Gladiolus along, as well. I know you'll want to visit Aulea; I thought we might pay our respects as well, if you don't mind the company."

Weskham and Gladiolus weren't the only people that Clarus had brought. He had also dragged Cor up, and—once Weskham had made Regis presentable—Regis found Crea sitting in the lounge, having an earnest conversation about trains with Gladio.

This was Clarus' way of reminding him he wasn't alone, today—and ensuring that he had not even a moment to sink into a black mood. Regis didn't call them out or send them away; Clarus was better at guessing what he needed than Regis was, himself.

They all went to the mausoleum. In spite of the solemn purpose, there was an inexplicable sort of levity; grief brought people together, if one let it. He did. Today of all days, it was important to remember that even though she was gone, he wasn't alone.

They stood before her grave together, a silent group of seven, and remembered. Even the children were quiet; Regis lifted Reina and Noctis so they could each put a flower in the vase beside Aulea's plaque. With some little coaxing, he convinced them both to tell their mother they loved her, though they still had limited understanding of what that meant. He could show them pictures and tell them stories and explain that a woman they had never met was gone forever, but doubtless the only thing they understood was that their father was sad and solemn whenever they visited this place. Crea was the closest thing to a mother that he had ever known. Perhaps it was better, that way. He wouldn't have known how to explain that a woman they loved was never coming back home.

When they left, though Regis' heart was heavy, the spell on the children broke. Gladiolus played well with Reina and Noctis, though he was three years older. He still liked to pick up Reina and move her about—usually only Reina, given that Noctis was much more difficult to catch—and when his mother wasn't around, no one scolded him for it. Crea showed him how to hold a three year old without getting kicked.

The age difference was fascinating. Though he was only a few years older than the twins, he still spoke of them as if they were babies. Invariably, whenever Noctis caught on to this, he would yell 'I'm a big boy!' as loud as his little lungs would allow, which, incidentally, was quite loud. Reina took it more gracefully. She still hadn't grown out of that silent stare that she fixed people with; it always made Regis wonder what was going on behind those great big eyes. She looked much too small to have such big thoughts.

That was the look she wore when Gladiolus explained, matter-of-factly, that he was going to be their Shield because they were too little to protect themselves.

"I have a candidate for royal adviser," Regis remembered.

"Oh?" Clarus pulled his eyes away from the brewing argument between Noctis and Gladiolus.

"The council is going to hate it."

"That is hardly a change from our current deadlock."

"Yes, well…" Regis assented. "Ignis Scientia. Avunculus' nephew."

Clarus' eyebrows came together in the middle. "A Scientia? You're right. They are going to hate it."

Regis only nodded, looking ahead, where the twins walked with Gladio and Crea. Noctis was  _not_ , he told Gladio intently,  _little_. He was absolutely a big boy who could take care of himself.

"I tire of the council's bickering," Regis said. "I think I shall make the decision for them, regardless."

"You  _are_ feel contrary today, aren't you?" Clarus asked.

And perhaps he was. Certainly, he was feeling disinclined to muster any more patience for ridiculous debates. Doubtless, his decree would force another debate, but he would face it if it meant an end to this discussion.

They returned to the Citadel and Weskham had Regis changed into his court attire in record time. Just like that, the company dispersed; Gladio was given back into the care of his own nanny, Noctis and Reina returned to their daily revelries, and Cor excused himself to see to his own duties. Crea reminded Regis that Agnys would be there at three for the twins' lessons if he wanted to observe; Regis promised to try, though he knew he wouldn't succeed. And he left with Clarus; Lucis awaited.

Regis didn't wait until the council convened in the private meeting chamber to broach the subject of the royal advisor. It wasn't as if this was a secret of national importance; it could be discussed in court just as easily.

"As this council has yet to agree upon a candidate for Hand of the Heir, I have seen fit to choose one of my own." Regis sat on his throne at the head of the room—to his left and right against the wall and slightly below, the council took their seats. "The child in question is not of noble birth, but I believe that, in this day and age, we might easily overlook that fact. So I put before you the name of Ignis Scientia, as royal adviser to the future monarch. Unless I am convinced otherwise, this will be done."

Silence met his words as the councillors exchanged looks. Felice actually looked wholly pleased with the situation. Hamon was unreadable, as usual.

Aldebrand was the first to object. " _Scientia_? Sire, that is a family of servants!"

Clarus leaned forward in his seat. "Servants—as in those who  _serve the throne_. What, pray tell, do you believe the royal adviser is meant to do?"

"To advise the throne and to serve the throne may not be mutually exclusive, but they  _are_ separate," Aldebrand said.

"A man's capacity to serve and advise are  _not_ dictated by his name," Clarus retorted.

Faithful Clarus. Regis would long since have gone mad without him.

Hamon cleared his throat, interjecting before Aldebrand could respond. "If I may, Your Majesty. Regardless of lofty ideals, the upper class  _will_ object to awarding such station and respect to a child of his bloodline. The reasons are not altogether trivial. The education and upbringing provided to a child of station is substantially different—even in this  _day and age_. To take a boy raised to serve and throw him unceremoniously into the midst of a full court, expecting him to keep his head above water is foolish at best and sadistic at worst."

"The boy is only six years old," Clarus said. "As of yet, he has not been raised at all, much less been raised to serve."

"We might debate the age at which behaviors are rooted endlessly," Hamon said. "But our time might be better spent on this question: will he  _not_ be raised to serve?"

"If he were appointed," Felice said, "His rearing could easily be changed, from this point on."

"By whom?" Aldebrand asked. "His family, born and raised as servants and attendants? Unlikely."

"Surely the crown has the means to provide such an education," Felice said.

"It is not simply the  _education_ , Master Felice," Aldebrand said. "As Master Hamon has indicated, the boy must be immersed in this court if he is ever to be a respected member of it."

"Then let him be immersed," Hamon said.

Silence fell once more and heads turned.

"He is six, you say, Master Clarus?" Hamon asked. "That is still young enough. Have him taken from his guardians and ensconced in the court, here and now. Have him given lessons befitting one of the station we intend for him. Have him hold responsibilities fitting for such a child. And by the time he is old enough to assume his position he will already have been doing it his whole life."

Not even Aldebrand could find issue with this logic. Regis could, though he kept it to himself for the moment. For such a plan to work, Ignis' guardians would have to be willing to give him into the guardianship of another. Was the honor of having their son chosen for the highest office in Lucis enough recompense for losing him?

It wasn't, for Regis.

But talk had begun and proceeded more solidly than Regis had expected. They summoned a rather flustered Avunculus from his duties and had his words on the subject. They made plans to have the boy, himself, called before them. Then they would have a full investigation—as if they expected that a six year old might have been involved in some sort of unsavory mischief. If all that went favorably, then they could make a formal request, which Avun maintained, would be accepted without pause, in spite of the trade off.

By the time Regis returned to the upper levels that evening, he had all but forgotten that this day was meant to be the worst day of the year. He still missed her. And he still  _hurt_. But that was a constant; by now he expected it. Just as Crea had promised, he  _was_ growing accustomed to it.

He arrived in time to read a bedtime story to the twins. He declined Crea's offer to let them sleep in his bed again; never had he shared a bed with someone—two someones—so wiggly. Crea only laughed when he said so.

Once the children were asleep (or as asleep as they would be, until one of them climbed into the other's bed) he walked Crea out and lingered in the hall with her.

"I believe I owe you an apology," Regis said.

"What for?"

"Last night, I believe I inadvertently made you uncomfortable with a remark, which—I later reflected—was highly inappropriate. And so I apologize."

It took her a moment to remember what he was speaking of. At least that meant she hadn't dwelled overmuch on his uncouth words.

"Oh! No—it's fine—I just—" She flushed again and Regis had the distinct impression he had made another misstep. "I knew you didn't mean anything by it, and it just—well. Never mind. But last night did make me realize that the twins are probably old enough to do away with the overnight shift."

She changed subjects so quickly that Regis almost forgot the stumble beforehand. Almost. It took him another moment to catch up.

"Do away with…?"

"Having someone sit in their room all night. They don't usually wake, anymore; it's just a waste to have someone sitting by on that off chance," she said.

"Leave them  _alone_ , all night?" Regis asked.

Crea blinked at him. Then she laughed at him. "Sometimes I forget how much of a dad you are. And then you say something like that…"

He couldn't decide if it was a compliment or not.

"Yes, Regis," she continued. "Leave them alone  _all night_. Did you expect to keep a nanny in their room for their whole lives?"

In fact, he had not thought that far ahead at all. Now that he did, it was still an unsettling thought.

"What if they should need someone?" He asked.

"Your room is very close."

"I am not always in my room."

"Now  _that_ is a good point," she conceded. "I suppose I could stay until you are."

"You intend to work a sixteen hour day and then doze in a chair indefinitely until whatever ungodly hour I happen to return?"

Crea shrugged. "I've had worse jobs."

He was suddenly aware of how little he knew of her life before she had come under his employ. It stopped whatever other complaints he may have had dead in their tracks.

"I should prefer that this was not one of them," he said. "But, if you are adamant that it is time to take this step, I will allow it on one condition."

"Which is?"

"There are half a dozen empty suites on this floor alone. Please.  _Take one_."

"You want me to move up here?" She paled a shade.

"Yes."

"To the royal suites?" Her voice came out a squeak on the last syllable.

"You spend all your time here, already. I see no reason why—" He stopped himself, recalling how poorly he understood her situation. "Unless, of course, you do not wish to. In which case…"

"No, it's not that—I do! I was just… surprised."

"Then you'll do it?" Regis asked.

She smiled. "I'll do it."

Regis sighed, relieved. "Thank you. You put my mind at ease—please, choose whichever rooms you prefer. And if you should need anything…"

"I'll manage. Now go to bed!" She chided. "Because if you actually got more than three hours of sleep with those two in your bed I will be  _very_ surprised."

"I am fine," he said—though it was immediately belied by a yawn.

She was laughing at him, again. He smiled back and pressed her hand. "Goodnight, Crea."

He returned to his rooms. Somehow, even though they were no less empty than before, he didn't feel so alone.


	10. Acquiescence

Regis ought have known the year before that the vacancy of queen issue was never going to disappear simply because he said so. The ruling council existed, in part, to advise the king and to bring to his attention matters beyond his usual perspective. As such, until all parties were convinced of a thing, the council was free to continue picking at old wounds whenever they felt it suitable to renew a subject.

Most of the time when this happened it was one or two councilors who hadn't gotten their way, attempting to drum up interest for changing a decision. When that happened, very little came of it; the other members of the council had usually moved on or accepted a decision, by that time, and had little interest in rehashing old debates.

The exception came when Regis forced a decision himself. Though he was well within his rights to do so if no consensus could be reached, if  _everyone_ on the council disagreed with him, it was only going to come back and bite him, later. And so it was, with this.

As the Citadel exchanged brightly colored leaves for bare trees and rain for snow, the council was at last convinced to accept Ignis Scientia as future royal adviser. Plans for his rearing were still in progress, and they had yet to introduce him to the twins, but he and his parents had sufficiently pleased the council so that one more debate was laid to rest. But they never were content with peace among their numbers. If ever Regis had attended a council meeting with  _no_ arguments (however eminently polite they may have been) he would have been forced to consider the possibility that he had slept in and not made it to council at all, but only dreamed of some strange harmony.

And so, one evening in early January, he came in from the snow with a pair of very cold and very happy children to find Clarus waiting for him.

"Is it that time, already?" Regis strained to find his pocket watch while still holding a purple ball of fluff and snow, who kicked her feet and complained about being indoors again, even though her mittens were soaked through.

"I'm afraid so," Clarus said.

Something about his tone made what should have been a commonplace situation much more grave. Regis passed Reina off to Crea and bid a hasty farewell to both of them and Noctis.

"Accordo?" He asked as he fell into step with Clarus.

"No," Clarus said carefully. "Of less international importance—and yet I'm certain you'll like it no more."

Regis waited for the clarification that he knew would come. It took a moment.

"It's that time of year when everyone in the Citadel, save you, starts wanting to celebrate the king's birthday."

Regis made a sound of annoyance. He had been doing a very good job at forgetting he had one, for the past eleven months. It was a cycle that could go on forever. Either he said no, there would be no ball, and the council assented for eleven months and tried again next year, or he finally gave in and then they would expect him to do the same every year thereafter. There were no permanent solutions.

But, though the mere prospect of a birthday ball was abhorrent to him, his opposition stemmed from the council's true purpose.

"And their  _other_ plans?" Regis asked.

"I… have heard talk of who to seat beside you," Clarus admitted.

Regis said nothing. They passed through the quiet halls, inhabited primarily by Crownsguards and servants, and through the marble arch that lead to the council chamber. The great stone doors, wreathed in gold and carved with the image of a sun rising—or perhaps setting—on the horizon, stood closed and guarded by a pair of Crownsguards. When Regis halted, they reached for the handles, but he stopped them with a motion.

"Well?" He turned to Clarus. They weren't alone, but they hardly ever were. Two guards stood at the door, a pair followed behind, and Avunculus trailed behind  _them_. Such was part of being king. True solitude had never been something he was familiar with. "You are the royal adviser. What do you advise?"

"Let them hold a ball in your honor," Clarus sighed. "Make polite with whatever young women they throw at you and—for  _once_ —try to enjoy yourself. Don't think of them as vapid replacements of Aulea; try to remember they're people, too. And if they happen to be people that you like then, perhaps, you have gained a friend. And if they don't, then. Well. You've survived worse nights. And it would do everyone some good if you were seen in public, now and then."

It wasn't what he wanted to hear, but half of asking for advice was accepting that what  _he_ wanted wasn't always the best thing.

"I suppose you're right." Regis looked at the closed council room doors, rather than Clarus.

Clarus grasped his shoulder briefly. "I will, of course, be with you."

Regis granted him a tight smile. "As ever."

"As ever," Clarus agreed.

They had but to step forward and the doors to the council chamber opened before them. Eleven chairs scraped against the marble floor as the assembled council members rose. Each one of them bowed and murmured some formal greeting as Regis passed them. They resumed their seats only once he had taken his.

"It has been brought to my attention that there is renewed interest, at this table, in a public gathering for the celebration of my birthday," Regis began, once all were seated. "While I have no interest in frivolous displays, I do understand that it has been some time since I was officially in the public eye. As such, I give my consent for such an event to take place, this year."

It would have taken a blind man to miss the shock that followed his words. Likely, each and every one of them had expected to tip-toe around the subject and slowly coax him in that direction with dropped hints and breadcrumbs. And why shouldn't they? The whole thing was still a ridiculous idea. Clarus may have convinced him to go through with it, but he hadn't changed his mind about that.

"And the rest?" Hamon sat forward in his seat.

No guessing what information he was after. Regis fixed him with a steely gaze. "I have neither interest in nor intention to remarry, Master Hamon."

A few of the others exchanged uncomfortable looks. Hamon merely met Regis' gaze and inclined his head ever so slightly. "As His Majesty wishes."

Hardly. Even if he had summoned and thoroughly questioned ever Lucii from the ring, Regis had no doubt that he would be hard pressed to find a king who had ever gotten his own way. Not in Lucis.

With the uncomfortable discussion out of the way, council proceeded. Regis had no interest in the actual planning of this ball—or whatever they intended for him. Likely that would be passed off to some enthusiastic courtier, who would take over Regis' kitchen and household staff for the month. He had few doubts that, in spite of his words, whoever was in charge of this would spend far too many hours pouring over eligible young women. He didn't even want to think about the money that would pass hands to ensure that such-and-such woman was seated near the king.

They might have well seated him with old women. He certainly didn't belong among the young ones, anymore.

When they left the council chamber later that night, Clarus clasped his shoulder and gave him a sympathetic smile before they parted ways. Regis returned to the upper levels on his own.

Reina and Noctis were sound asleep, by that time. It was still odd to find them alone in their room when he arrived to kiss them goodnight, so accustomed was he to having a nanny with them at all times. But he was comforted in the knowledge that Crea was nearby.  _That_ was stranger still, however. No one, save himself, Aulea, and the twins, had lived in these levels since his father had died. To suddenly have another set of rooms occupied was bizarre.

She had chosen the rooms immediately next door to the twins' room, which put her between his room and theirs—albeit with empty space in between. The light was on under her door when he passed. Somehow, he found himself stopping. What he wanted was a drink and his bed, but sympathetic company was sounding ever more appealing. He had even lifted his hand to knock before his mind caught up with him.

What was he even doing? She was his childrens' nanny and that was all. He could justify unburdening himself on Weskham or Clarus or even Cor (though Cor was, admittedly, a poor choice, given that he was neither empathetic nor helpful in most circumstances) but Crea certainly had no obligation to listen to him.

He shook his head at his own folly. He turned and walked away.

The door opened behind him.

"Regis?"

He stopped. He tried to fit a smile on his face before he turned, but in all likelihood it looked pathetic.

"I thought I heard—" She said, before thinking better of something and changing words mid-sentence. "Are you alright?"

If she  _asked_  surely he was allowed to answer.

"It has been a trying evening and I think I could do with a stiff drink," he said.

She made a face at that. "I don't know how you can drink that stuff." She jerked her head toward her open door. "Come on. I'll make you a cup of tea. It's better for you."

He hesitated, because he really  _did_ want something stronger than tea, but also because… because what? Something was niggling in the back of his mind about going into her rooms.

She held out her hand and waggled her fingers at him. He stopped hesitating; he took her hand and let her pull him through the open door.

Like the nursery next door, Crea's rooms were three rooms joined together. The main room was a sitting room—it had always been, so far as Regis knew—but Crea's touch was on it. Whereas most of the Citadel—including Regis' rooms—were done in black and gold, Crea had removed and replaced until her rooms were unrecognizable. The solemn, black leather furniture was replaced with a short white sofa, which was square but squishy rather than wooden, and a few armchairs with a white and pink design. A few throw pillows, some wooden end-tables (notably  _not_ ebony), a coffee table, and some art on the opposite wall tied everything together. Even the cold, black marble floor was covered with a plush carpet.

It felt like stepping out of the Citadel altogether. And Regis realized he couldn't remember the last time he  _had_ been out of the Citadel.

He sat on the sofa and watched her assemble two mugs of tea. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't certain that he had ever watched someone make tea, before. She had an electric kettle and a little tree of mugs on the sideboard. From a drawer she pulled out several different tins. He gathered that the contents were tea leaves, though he could not fathom the rhyme or reason for the different combinations she mixed. She glanced over her shoulder at him once, eyes narrowed, as if reading something on his face, before returning to her work. When she came to join him, putting a steaming mug on the table before him and sitting down with her own, he was thoroughly mystified by the entire process.

There was a cute little chocobo floating in his mug. Crea's had a carbuncle perched on one side, with its tail hanging inside.

"Is this how people drink tea?" He prodded the chocobo.

"Some people have very boring tea infusers," Crea told him gravely.

"What is a tea infuser?"

"Did you think the chocobo was just for fun?"

He had been wondering, to be perfectly honest. Probably she had caught him admiring the chocobo decorations in Reina and Noctis' rooms one too many times.

"It's full of tea leaves," Crea said. "How do  _you_ drink tea?"

"From a teapot on a tray and often accompanied by tiny sandwiches." Regis lifted the chocobo part-way out of the tea to find that it was, in fact, full of little holes, underneath.

She laughed at him.

"What?" He let the chocobo fall back into the tea.

"Sometimes you're so normal. And then you say something like that and I remember you're really,  _really_ not," she said.

Regis wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that, so he didn't. He learned more about tea than he had ever known there  _was_ to know about tea; she told him what leaves had gone into it and he promptly forgot all the names, then she showed him how to remove the chocobo when the tea was ready (which was also not something that had ever occurred to him). They spoke of comfortable subjects: of her new rooms and how she was settling in. She wanted to get permission to paint the walls and brighten up the black, since she had so much spare time with her twenty-four-hour work shift. He told her she could have it done by someone else.

And when the casual conversation faded away and they sat with their cooling tea, Crea with her legs crossed underneath her, Regis had almost forgotten what had brought him here in the first place.

But not quite.

"I have been pressured into tolerating a ball thrown in honor of my birthday," Regis said, after the quiet had stretched sufficiently.

She waited. A hint of a crease between her brows spoke of confusion, but she didn't speak. Perhaps she guessed there was more.

"Ostensibly because the people wish to see their king," he said, "But I suspect the whole idea is merely a cover to introduce as many titled and unmarried women to me as they can fit in one room."

Crea choked on her tea. "Your council is trying to play matchmaker?!"

"Yes," Regis said gravely.

"And… do you want…?"

"No. I have no intention of becoming involved with someone."

"Why not?" She asked.

Regis looked sharply at her.

"Sorry! I don't mean like that—!" She said quickly "I just mean that I can think of a hundred reasons not to, so I'm wondering which…? If it's too personal…"

He smiled unhappily. "No, I would share, but I can hardly quantify it, myself. On the one hand, it feels as if that would be unfaithful to Aulea. On the other, I wonder if any could ever capture me as she did."

Crea inched closer. "Not to mention, having your council trying to stick their nose in it is just plain invasive."

"Precisely."

"So what will you do?"

He shook his head. "I have told them that we will throw a ball. And I have told Clarus that I will be polite, but I have no intention of enjoying myself."

"You don't even get to spend your birthday doing what you want?"

"That is not a luxury I have ever had." He smiled bitterly. "No, my dear, I have had few birthdays of any worth. But I maintain that these celebrations become pointless past the age of fifteen. Do I need a day on which to note how old I am growing?"

"You're not old."

"I feel old, sometimes. Often."

She stared at her half-empty mug in silence, strummed her fingers on the side. "Does the Wall do that?"

He held out his hand and looked at the black ring, inlaid with the Lucis Caelum house crest. "Every day it drains some little more of me. Someday I will grow too old to recover what it takes as fast as it takes it."

She followed his gaze, studying the way the ring caught the light for a moment.

Then, without preamble or apparent segue, she said, "I wish you wife was still here."

Despite the fact that he thought the same to himself, multiple times per day, each and every day, the remark caught him off-guard. He turned to look at her and she pulled her gaze from the ring. Her eyes were shiny and over-bright.

"So you wouldn't be so alone," she said.

It was such a pure and genuine wish for the sake of his happiness, when she had never even met Aulea.

"I… am not completely alone," he managed after a moment. "I have Clarus… and Weskham…"

"Both admirable men, but I think we can all agree that they lack a certain tenderness," Crea said matter-of-factly.

"And Cor."

"Marshal Leonis' solution to everything is to hit it harder."

Regis laughed. "And I have my children."

"Undeniably the cutest kids on Eos, but  _not_ very empathetic listeners."

Somehow she had taken him from moping about a birthday party to imagining an earnest emotional outpouring involving Noctis.

He smiled at her. "And… I should like to think… I also have you."

"And what am I?" She asked.

He considered. Then shook his head. "I have no idea. I put the most important parts of my life in your hands every day; you do what I wish I had the freedom to do, but you do it much better than I ever could. And, somehow, after spending all day doing that, you still have enough energy left to teach me about tea infusers and listen to me complain about trivial problems."

"You don't have any trivial problems," she objected.

He only smiled.

"Well," she said, "I'm not your royal adviser or your Shield or your steward or the marshal of your Crownsguard… but I'm here. If you ever need me."

"Come to the ball," he said.

"What?"

"Reina loves her dresses and intricate hair, does she not? And if the people of Insomnia wish to see their king, doubtless the prince and princess should make an appearance, as well. If they are there, then you must also be there."

She stared at him, stricken. "I can't go to a party full of rich, upper-class guests! I'm just a nanny!"

"The nanny of the prince and princess must go where they go," Regis said. "And have we not established, a moment ago, that you are more than that?"

She looked unconvinced. "I have nothing to wear."

"You really must think of a better excuse than that. You realize, I am sure, that the Citadel staff includes half a dozen tailors and seamstresses? They will make you a dress along with Reina and Noctis' attire."

"You really want me to go?"

"I do."

"Then," Crea sighed, "I guess I'm going."

She still looked reluctant, but that had mostly given way to resignation.

They finished their tea and she walked him to the door. He was struck by the fact that he had stood outside her door, not but an hour or two before, dreading the month to come, and now he left with a surety that it would be—if nothing else—tolerable. And she hadn't even used alcohol.

"Crea—" He stopped outside and turned.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"Well don't thank me, yet; I might still embarrass you in front of the whole kingdom."

He smiled. "No—thank you for everything."

Before she could object, he pulled her into a hug. When he walked away and returned to his own room, it was with a certain warmth burning in his chest, which had nothing to do with hot tea.


	11. Birthday

The planning of Regis' birthday celebration went along largely without his knowledge or intervention. He knew only what date it was to take place on and that, after several  _polite_ discussions, the council had turned over the planning to Grand Duchess Lavian Antares, who had immediately enlisted the help of Weskham. Wes, at least, had the good sense not to ask Regis' advice on any details. He also wisely decided not to share any. Some scattered conversations were sufficient to assure Regis that suitable attire was being arranged for Noctis, Reina, and Crea, and beyond that he had very little interest in the entire subject.

The month passed with very little note. Accordo's people were still stirring in discontent, but the council was beginning to give up hope that it would ever develop into more than that; their two operatives were still safely undercover, and that was the important part. Niflheim was disconcertingly quiet. One or two of the council half-halfheartedly suggested an attempt to infiltrate the empire and determine what they were up to, but the idea never took root. The wheels were set in motion for moving the young Ignis Scientia into the Citadel, but it was postponed until after the birthday celebration. At least no one had tried to return to the subject of the heir.

On the morning of Regis' 33rd birthday, he breakfasted alone and in his own room, as he most often did, these days. The dining room had been put to use but a handful of times in the past three years. Regardless of how accustomed Regis became to her absence, it was never enjoyable to eat alone at an empty table. He might have gone down to the main hall to take his meals with the court—and sometimes he did—but that morning he preferred to avoid the crowds as much as possible while he still could. Besides, the main hall would be busy in preparation for the night's event.

He spent the day fitting in as much of his regularly scheduled tasks as possible before he was inevitably called away. He was doing a tolerable job keeping the pace Cor set for him in the mornings, which at least made him feel a little less old, even on a day designed to remind him how old he was growing.

It was just past three in the afternoon. Strictly speaking, he should have returned to his rooms by then to prepare, but someone would come by and pull him away from his work before it was too late. He had a small pile of proposals to sift through and whatever he didn't finish this afternoon would only be added to tomorrow's schedule.

At three-thirty, Avunculus arrived. "Sire, an hour and a half remains before the ball begins…"

Regis glanced at the clock over the mantle, making a sound of acknowledgement, but not setting aside his work.

"I do believe you were expected upstairs half an hour ago, Your Majesty," Avun ventured after a moment.

Regis sighed. "Very well."

And he waved Avun away, buying for himself a sliver of postponement in that way. He stretched it another thirty minutes. Avunculus was never going to return and remind him of the time; he wasn't a timid man, but he also knew his place very well.

He would, however, remind  _Weskham_ of the time, trusting that Wes would see to the rest.

He did, of course.

There was hardly a pause between the knock and the door opening. Weskham stuck his head in first, found Regis still at his desk without intent to rise, and entered fully, shutting the door quietly behind him.

"Regis." He came to stand in front of Regis' desk. Then he stood in silence until Regis put down his pen and looked up. "I realize that you don't want to attend. But, given that we've already told everyone you  _will_ , I'd like to think you will do me the courtesy of not embarrassing me in front of the entire kingdom by failing to attend your own birthday party."

Regis sighed. "I shall not leave you explaining to all my guests that the king chose not to attend. But I  _do_ have an hour and I  _must_ finish this."

"It isn't going to walk off your desk if you leave it alone," Weskham said. "It will take me an hour to make you presentable."

"I am presentable!"

Weskham gave him a long-suffering look.

"Oh, very well." Regis stacked his papers and rose. "But I shall dock your pay for each minute that I am early."

"Gods forbid that you be early." Weskham ushered him out and fell into step beside him.

"You have been spending far too much time with Clarus," Regis said.

"Sire, long-suffering and patient I may be. But I challenge you to face a month of the grand duchess breathing down your neck and come out the other side with your patience intact."

"You make a good argument," Regis said. He didn't complain for the rest of the evening. At least not to Weskham.

Regis let Weskham deal with him however he deemed suitable. Truthfully, Regis could not tell the difference when Wes was through with him. Yes, his beard was trimmed, he had not a hair out of place, and all the creases on his clothes lined up, but exactly who was going to notice any of those things?

They left his rooms together and encountered no small amount of activity in Reina and Noctis' room on their way out. Regis paused in the doorway, looking in.

The only time it was quiet in their rooms was the dead of night. Just now, classical music was playing over the stereo (they had moved on from Petrus and the Coeurl at last, thank the Gods), Reina was singing along, undeterred by the lack of words, Noctis was screaming from the other room, one of his nannies was calling after him, and Crea was sitting in the midst of everything, looking both impatient and harried as a maid laced her into her dress.

Reina saw him first. She was already in her new dress—a satin bodice and a fluffy skirt, reminiscent of a ballerina but much too long for that sort of dancing, all in black as befitted her station and bloodline—but her hair still hung loose around her shoulders. Nevertheless, she smiled brightly up at him.

"Daddy! It's your birthday!"

Crea flinched as if struck and turned toward the door, earning a rebuke from her maid. "Your Majesty—! Are we that late?"

"No, but I may be early."

Weskham had stopped as well—though he was a few steps down the hall. He was impatient to be downstairs, but resigned to the fact that Regis was never walking out without his children, now that he had crossed paths with them.

"Well, if you could just keep walking and pretend you never spotted what my nursery looks like in complete and utter disarray, that would be lovely," Crea said.

Noctis ran through in the opposite direction, holding a toy car, which, for some reason, was flying and blowing raspberries. He stopped long enough to shout "Hi, Daddy!" before carrying on.

"Your Highness, please! We must comb your hair!" His nanny followed.

Crea deflated. "Too late."

Regis laughed and stepped into the nursery. "To be perfectly honest, I am almost relieved to discover you are not, in fact, omnipotent."

"Oh well," Crea said. "I had you convinced for three years. This is your fault, you know. This is what happens when you make  _me_ get all dressed up, too. He knows he can get away with it and I can't chase him down."

"All finished, Miss Vinculum."

"Thank the Gods." Crea rose from her seat, took a step in the direction of the bathroom—where Noctis was still shouting—and then stopped herself. "I can't chase him down, anyway. I  _hate_ dresses. How did I let you talk me into this?"

She rounded on Regis, but he couldn't even begin to feel contrite. The last dress he had seen her in had been lovely, but this one had been made for her. While it was just possible to forget that any sort of artistic talent was required by the Citadel tailors when the only products of their labor he witnessed were iterations of the same suit he had always worn, more or less, he was struck now by how much effort must have gone into the design. It was a dusky blue gown, floor-length, with minuscule crystals in the top and a half-way sheer skirt. Beyond that, he didn't have the words to describe such a dress, save that she looked an entirely different person, wearing it. That might have been part the dress, and part the makeup and hair, but whatever it was, it had him practically staring at her.

He averted his gaze as rapidly as he could manage and hoped she hadn't noticed.

"How can I help?" He asked.

The raspberry-blowing car was back. Noctis narrowly missed crashing it into Regis' knee.

"You can start by catching  _that_  and holding him at least long enough to get his shoes on. Preferably until his hair is combed, as well," Crea said. "Reina, come here, little princess. Let's do your hair."

Regis had no objections. Weskham very nearly did, but in the end he merely stood in the doorway and resigned himself to the fact that Regis' perfect hair might be slightly less perfect by the time he was through with Noctis.

It took the better part of ten minutes to finish getting Noctis dressed. Afterward, Regis distracted him while they waited for Crea to finish with Reina's hair. By the time everyone was ready, they were certainly late. Regis had no regrets about that—Weskham did, but he kept them to himself, only stopping them for a moment so that he could fix Regis' hair again and straighten his suit. It had almost certainly been straight before.

They left together, all five of them. Or, more accurately, Reina and Noctis raced down the hall while Regis, Crea, and Weskham followed behind. The twins didn't get very far ahead; they still couldn't reach the button for the elevator. But, after they had all stepped inside and ridden the lift to the lower levels, the little ones  _did_ startle the Crownsguards standing outside when they bolted out of the elevator and down the main Citadel hall.

"And we'll never see them again," Crea said.

Regis sighed. He lifted his voice and called after them, "Noctis. Reina. Stay where I can see you."

Reina halted immediately. Noctis slowed and turned a moment after, retracing his steps back to his sister.

"Okay!" Reina said.

Noctis ducked behind her, doing his best to make himself unseen, as if that meant he was free from any promises his sister gave.

And that was his children in so few actions: Reina, following instructions to the letter on the first asking, and Noctis, testing to see exactly how far he could stretch the rules before he met with repercussions. It was fascinating to witness such different personalities forming in children who were otherwise so close together.

Crea was looking at him oddly.

"Have I done something?" He asked.

"I was just thinking how much better they behave for you than anyone on my staff," she said.

"I thought I might flex my muscles and force them to behave, since I have coerced you into a dress." He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

She hesitated for only a heartbeat before taking it.

"And here I have not even told you how nice you look in it," Regis said. "How rude of me."

"Don't make it worse."

"I mean every word!"

She made a face at him and he spotted the young woman underneath the custom dress and artful makeup. She dropped her gaze and stared ahead. They walked more slowly than usual; he suspected it was because she was unused to her shoes and skirt.

"You look nice, too," she said quietly.

"I look the same as ever."

"No you don't." She looked up at him. "Weskham's doing, I bet."

Weskham inclined his head. Regis shook his. He looked  _exactly_ the same.

They managed to catch up with Reina and Noctis before reaching the main hall. The doors were thrown wide open and the lively murmur of a sizable crowd drifted out from inside. The Crownsguards at the door bowed as they approached, but Weskham insisted on tugging Regis' suit straight one more time and rearranging everyone before they entered. He scooped up Reina and pushed her into Regis' arms, and managed to catch Noctis before he wandered in by himself. Evidently it would not do for Regis to enter with Crea on his arm; instead he held Reina in one arm and Noctis' hand on his other side. Crea and Weskham entered behind.

So far as Regis could tell, the room looked much the same as ever, save that it wasn't usually so full of people. From the main doors, the hall swept left and right nearly as far as the eye could see. Like most of the Citadel, it was tiled in black marble and accented in stone columns, around which peeked statues of gold. The ceiling rose high enough overhead that the one room took up two stories of space. Most of it was unused; save for the space occupied by the crystal chandeliers none of that second story was in functional. One long table of polished ebony stretched the full length of the room. On the near wall, sideboards ran the full length; on the far wall they were broken in places because the wall itself opened between pillars to allow guests into the ballroom, later, for dancing.

Dancing. They were expecting him to dance, weren't they? Well they could eat that hope right now; he had agreed to attend and be polite. Nothing in Clarus' advice included dancing with whatever courtiers the council and the Grand Duchess had arranged to throw at him. He had no interest.

No sooner had they entered than the attendant on the door was crying out, "His Royal Majesty, King Regis Lucis Caelum the One Hundred Thirteenth. Their Royal Highnesses, Princess Reina Lucis Caelum and Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum."

A hush fell over the room. It was all the more uncanny for the fact that there must have been five hundred people present. Clarus, who stood beside the door, turned toward him. The look on his face said he was  _not_ pleased that Regis was a few minutes late. To be fair, Regis wasn't sure exactly how late they were.

The silence was punctuated by the sound of five hundred people rising from their seats, more or less at once. Noctis and Reina both stared wide-eyed around the room. For all that the entire city knew their names and faces, they had scarcely ever seen such a crowd before.

"Your Majesty." Avunculus stepped from the long line of attendants that stretched down the hall on either side. With swift efficiency he had the three of them seated: Regis' chair was easily the tallest in the room, directly in the center of the table. Reina and Noctis were seated to his right with Crea beyond them. In spite of how pale and tight-lipped she had grown, Regis could not spare a moment to speak to her. He was too occupied with what sat across from him to even glance at anyone who sat beside him.

Traditionally, the king and queen sat in the center of the table on opposite sides. Rather than change the chair and fill that place with someone else, they had left her chair vacant. Directly across from him. He squeezed his eyes shut, briefly, steeling himself for a long night of staring down that reminder. But this was his birthday and every titled courtier in the city was in attendance. He would put on the front that they all expected to see.

Conversation resumed when all were seated once more. Regis averted his gaze from the empty chair across from his and glanced to his right, where Reina was staring at her reflection in the gold service plate and Crea was talking Noctis out of tasting all of his shiny silverware. They never failed to bring the smile back to his face.

Beyond them, the table was arranged vaguely according to rank—among other complicated considerations that Regis never had to worry about. A few seats down on his right, past Crea, Cor and, a little farther down, Weskham sat; across the table on what would have been Aulea's right were Clarus and his wife Fidelia. And to Regis' left was—

His breath stuck in his chest. For a moment he swore he was looking at a ghost: black hair with a shine like ice on a frozen pond, azure eyes to outshine all of her jewels, and a pair of delicately curved lips the color of pink roses. Then his brain began to work once more and he noted the differences. Her nose was a touch longer, her chin a little sharper, and her cheeks not so hollow.

But she still looked like Aulea.

If the grand duchess was still in Lucis tomorrow morning, he was having her executed. And Weskham as well. How could he possibly have thought this would be acceptable? Had Regis not made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of replacing Aulea? And yet, they had dug up some young woman who looked as much like her as possible and sat her right beside him as if—

Across the table, Clarus' expression said that he, at least, had  _not_ been privy to this information before tonight. Regis had half a mind to stand up and walk out then and there. Except he had coerced Crea into coming and he wasn't going to leave her here alone. Gods damn it. He should never have agreed in the first place.

As the first course came, the grand duchess appeared to ensure that introductions were made. Only a lifetime of sitting in difficult situations kept him from snapping at her. The young woman's name was Perfida Fallo, the duchess said, and she came with a long list of accolades, which Regis didn't listen to, along with connections to not one but multiple larger businesses in the city. Regis kept his word to Clarus. He was polite. That was the most that could be said for his dinner conversation.

It took more self control as the night went on. The Lady Fallo held none of the reverence for him that most did on their first encounter and beyond; at first that merely grated on him. He liked to think he wasn't the sort of king who required his people to grovel before him at every opportunity, but his permissiveness had its limits. She spoke to him as if they had known each other for years: the celebration was all a waste, she informed him casually, a whole lot of pomp for so little purpose when they could have so easily spent the money on something else; she hated being on display like this and—begging his pardon, but—everyone's attention really was focused on the center of the table, wasn't it? However did he tolerate this all the time?

The nagging feeling of irritation grew throughout the first course and into the second until he realized precisely what it was that troubled him.

She didn't just  _look_ like Aulea. She was attempting to  _act_ like Aulea. As if someone, somewhere in his history, had observed his wife leaning over and sharing empathetic whispers with him, but had missed the important fact that he had known Aulea since he was  _five_. If Aulea joked that Clarus' hair was going grey it was affectionate and amusing. If a stranger did the same thing, it was insulting. But nothing was quite as insulting as the fact that  _someone_ , whether the Lady Fallo or the grand duchess or someone else entirely, had thought it would be a good plan to try and make a carbon copy of Aulea and slip her in beside him as if he wouldn't notice she wasn't his wife.

And  _that_  crossed any restrictions he had placed on himself when he agreed to this entire debacle. If any on the council believed they could manipulate him so easily, they were sorely mistaken. And he meant to show it.

He motioned for Avunculus, who was standing behind him against the wall. Avun was at his elbow in an instant.

"Avun, we require some modification in the seating arrangements," Regis said. "Lady Fallo feels uncomfortable in the center of attention. Let us have her seated down with the grand duchess; Princess Reina will have the place on my left, instead."

Lady Fallo openly gaped at him. Even Avun raised his eyebrows, shocked that Regis would ask for such a change in the middle of the meal. But he also understood that Regis would never have asked if he did not intend for it to be done, and immediately.

"Of course, Your Majesty. Allow me to see to the arrangements." Avun bowed. "My lady, if you would accompany me."

She was left with very little choice but to do so; after complaining about her position, she could hardly retrace her steps. Regis took a perverse satisfaction in watching realization settle on her features.


	12. Replacement

In short order, his dinner partner was removed from his sight, Reina was moved over to his left, and Crea shifted into her vacated place, one seat closer to Regis. The rest followed in a sort of wave. Regis had no doubt that by the time Lady Fallo was seated once more, everyone in the room knew what had happened. Let her draw attention to the grand duchess; if she had not orchestrated the entire thing, she had certainly allowed it. To have the woman she had chosen as Regis' guest of honor to be relegated to a seat beside her was the highest form of insult he could deal without deigning to speak a word to her.

Clarus caught his eye across the table. Though his mouth remained shut, his expression said: 'that was childish.' Regis disagreed. He fixed Clarus with a placid smile and turned his attention to his—much improved—dinner partner.

"Daddy, what's this?"

"I suspect it was once an onion. Incidentally, it is frowned upon to put your fingers in your soup, my dear."

Crea surreptitiously passed him an extra napkin over Noctis' head. The remainder of the meal was considerably more enjoyable. Yes, he had only removed  _one_ of the well-dressed and perfectly-groomed women that the grand duchess had seated in his vicinity, but he made a point of holding quiet conversation with Reina, Noctis, and Crea, which left very little opportunity for the others to show off exactly how well they had been trained to attract the king's attention. Crea relaxed somewhat, once they were close enough to speak without straining. She was relieved, but still uncomfortable.

The kitchens had prepared a birthday cake so large that it had to be wheeled in and wouldn't have fit on the table even if they tried. A waste, given that Regis wasn't especially inclined toward cake—though Noctis gave a joyful cry at the sight of it. All three of them stood beside it to blow out the candles, but mostly just because the twins had developed a habit of following him like ducklings. Reina was more successful in helping extinguish the candles. Noctis plucked one from the cake. Crea managed to drag him back before he took a handful of the icing, as well. It was a very good thing he had insisted on her attending with them. Truly, it was a miracle that she had convinced two three year olds to sit through a full six course meal.

When the dessert course had concluded, the far wall opened up into the ballroom and the guests transferred over. For Regis, this primarily amounted to moving from one high-backed chair to another, though the second was on a dais. At least he wasn't staring at Aulea's empty spot, anymore. Orchestral music filled the ballroom, guests took to the floor in pairs; Noctis gave Crea her week's workout by darting repeatedly onto the dance floor and daring her to catch him; Reina clung to Regis's arm until he was seated with her in his lap and then she buried her face against his chest, evidently less at-ease with the crowd than her brother was; and Clarus, Cor, and Weskham wandered over to keep Regis company.

A small knot of women had formed around Grand Duchess Lavian. Some were those that had been seated near Regis during dinner and, judging by the way they were all glancing his direction, in what might have been called a covert manner, he suspected they were debating whether or not to ask him to dance. All he could do for  _that_ was make it clear he had no interest in moving for the remainder of the night; he motioned for Avun to bring him a glass of wine, settled Reina comfortably in the middle of his lap, and embedded himself in conversation with his inner circle.

"I forbid any of you from leaving this dais, for any reason, until I do," Regis said.

"If Clarus doesn't slow down on his wine, that may be something of a challenge for him, Sire," Weskham said.

Clarus shot him a look, which was a touch too amused to be called a glare. "It's only my second glass."

His plan seemed to work. None of those women who congregated nearby came to ask him to dance. He kept one eye on them until he caught the grand duchess' gaze. It was a message that needed no words; one look sufficed. Her group of young women dispersed.

Not long after, Crea approached, hauling a giggling Noctis along with her. Though she still looked as lovely as ever, she seemed more drawn. He may have disliked the whole ordeal involved with the dinner and ball, but he wasn't  _uncomfortable_. She was. He suddenly regretted dragging her into this.

"Your Majesty—hush, Noctis!—I don't know how long you want them to stay, but bedtime is usually nine and it's going to take me a while to get Noct to calm down enough to sleep."

Regis rose from his chair. "If you believe it would be best to retire now, then by all means, let us take them back upstairs. If you can tolerate the inevitable commotion that comes of leaving with the king, I will accompany you."

"If you're ready to leave, I'd welcome the company." Crea was relieved just to be going.

Someone was going to complain that he was leaving too early, but he was in no mood to humor them. While he might have, unwilling though it was, given up evenings with his children for his work, he was never going to do the same for the sake of a party. So he lifted his daughter, who was half asleep already, and ushered Crea out of the room. As expected, this was easier said than done. Clarus, Weskham, and Cor trailed after them and half the guests made their way over to wish Regis a happy birthday and a good night before he left. And, of course, once they were near, everyone simply had to say goodnight to the little prince and princess and remark upon how adorable they were. Crea was, more or less, invisible to them, save as the arms that held Noctis.

Regis accepted each well-wisher cordially, giving them their moment of attention from the king as he slowly worked his way toward the door with Reina at his hip and Crea in his wake. It took them a full thirty minutes to get out, and then only because Noctis, tired and annoyed with being held, had begun whining, and Clarus and Cor had cleared the way out for them, making apologies to any who had yet to speak with Regis.

Once they were outside in the comparative quiet of the hall, they made better time. They left Weskham at the doors, but Clarus and Cor came along all the way to the elevator, resuming their conversation from the ballroom. Crea spoke to Noctis in an undertone, but otherwise walked close to Regis and said nothing.

At the elevator, Regis bid his friends farewell—Cor was just as relieved as Regis was to be out of the ball—and convinced his children to do the same, such as it was. Reina willingly gave Clarus a hug and a kiss goodbye, then she and Cor stared each other down in stony silence. It seemed as if Reina was trying to match that stoic expression that Cor always wore. Eventually, Cor managed a stiff, "Goodnight, Your Highness," and Reina echoed him, much to Cor's chagrin. She hadn't mastered the purpose of titles, yet. Noctis was too over-tired to be cooperative, but after some whining on his part and coaxing on Crea's, he managed a wave for both of them.

The lift doors shut behind them. Reina yawned widely, Noctis squirmed in Crea's arms, and Crea stood a little closer than normal to Regis.

"Crea?" He rested his free hand on her back. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Fine." She immediately belied her words by inching closer and putting her head against his chest. Regis wrapped his arm around her into a lopsided group hug with two toddlers in the middle.

"I don't know how you can do it," she said, eventually, voice muffled against his chest. "Walk through that with a million people grabbing at you and pretend like it's nothing."

Until that moment, it hadn't even occurred to him that something so ingrained in his life could be unnerving for anyone else.

"Familiarity," he responded, holding her a little tighter. "That has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember."

"I could never do that."

"You may be surprised what a person could grow accustomed to."

She laughed, but it was hollow, rather than amused. "I wouldn't."

The lift chimed. Crea pulled away from him before the doors opened, the Crownsguards on either side of the elevator doors bowed and greeted them, and they passed silently out into the lounge beyond.

What followed was a trying evening. Noctis was too wound up and too tired to cooperate with any sort of bedtime routine, and each time he began to cry it roused Reina, who then  _also_ began to cry. They traded off. Regis put Reina to bed while Crea sat out in the lounge with Noctis. Even that was troublesome, because Reina didn't want to sleep without Noctis. Eventually she  _did_ fall asleep and Regis joined Crea in the other room.

He had never seen her look so tired, before. Given that her job was the full-time care of two exuberant children, that was saying something. He pried Noctis from her arms, in spite of her protests and shooed her gently away. Then he wrapped Noctis up in a blanket and held him tight, murmuring quiet little stories to him until he finally gave in to calm and confinement, and fell asleep. That took the better part of half an hour. By then it was well past bedtime, but he managed to slip Noctis into his own bed and left the twins to sleep—hopefully—through the night.

With that done, he went to check on Crea. She answered her door looking no more cheerful than she had been before. Her hair was half out of its pins, her eye makeup was smudged, but she still wore her dress.

"I  _hate_ this dress."

"It looks wonderful on you!" He objected.

"Well I can't get out of it. And I hate being dressed up. I just feel stupid and fake."

He took her shoulders and gently turned her inside, leading her to sit on the edge of her sofa. Women's dresses were not, so to speak, his forte, but he was fairly certain he could ascertain how to get her  _out_ of it, at least. He would never have been able to get her back in, but something told him that wouldn't be a problem he needed to worry about.

Blue ribbon ran up the back of the dress, laced and tied like a shoe. No wonder she couldn't get out by herself. But it was, at least, easy to undo. He untied the knot and set about methodically pulling the ribbon from each eyelet. She was silent throughout, head bowed and hands clasped in her lap.

"I apologize for putting you through this," Regis said. "I did not realize how trying it would be for you."

As usual, he had been thinking of things only from his own perspective. A formal dinner and a ball could be tedious and annoying, but certainly never as troubling as she had found them. It had never even occurred to him that the whole thing would be an entirely different experience for a servant. That was just his problem, wasn't it?

"It's fine," she said, voice small. "I just don't really fit with those people."

He opened his mouth to tell her that wasn't true—that she could fit wherever she wished—but he stopped himself. Regardless of what he believed she could achieve or whatever ideals he had about station and bloodlines, the point was that she had felt like an outsider. And a feeling of belonging—or not belonging—was a powerful thing.

"Crea, you are wise and clever beyond your years. You are more competent and capable with children than anyone else I have ever met. And if your upbringing did not include fancy dinners with five hundred people at the table, that is hardly a failing of yours. These people have a lifetime of experience at hobnobbing and brown-nosing. Some of them have very little else that they are good at. I have no doubt that, if you wished to, you could learn this skill as well—for it is nothing more than that: something learned and practiced. It is not innate. It is not bred. And nothing about  _you,_  as a person, makes you any different or lesser than them." He pulled the ribbon free from the last two holes and pulled her into a backward hug. "Alright?"

She turned her head to look at him. They were close enough that he could see the individual teardrops clinging to her eyelashes.

"Alright," she whispered.

"You are considerably more important to me than any number of courtiers. And I would  _much_ prefer your dinner conversation than that of the young women chosen for me."

A tear escaped down her cheek. She laughed nervous and ducked her head to swipe at her eyes. "Don't! You're making me cry!"

He smiled and released her. "Then I believe my work here is done. I shall leave you to change into something comfortable and get some rest."

She turned to face him, holding her dress in place. "Thank you."

"Thank  _you_ , Crea." He rose from his seat. "I'll see you in the morning."

And he bid her goodnight, leaving—in spite of a certain reluctance to do so—and allowing her some quiet and respite.

The following morning, though he found Crea more or less back in her natural state, she did seem different. He couldn't place the source. Perhaps it was the mere fact that deeper understanding bred deeper connection and he  _had_ learned more of her the night before. Whatever the reason, he found himself ever more reluctant to leave the nursery behind and go about his duties, that morning. But he did, nevertheless.

It was inevitable that the subject of last night's dinner would arise somewhere between court and council. Given that he had fulfilled all of his obligations, Regis elected not to wait for someone else to bring it up; he broached the subject himself while they were in court. He even summoned Grand Duchess Lavian, in case the message he had sent was not plain enough.

"I believe I made it clear a month ago that Queen Aulea was  _not_ going to be replaced." Regis sat upon his throne, staring down the length of the room, rather than fixing on any of the court, or even the grand duchess below. "Imagine my surprise, then, when I found myself seated beside a young woman who not only shared certain physical characteristics with my late wife, but had evidently been schooled to act like her, as well."

No one moved. No one made a sound. His eyes scanned the council gallery and he picked out each of those who refused to meet his gaze. Those were the ones who had known of, or else condoned, the plan to place such a woman in the seat for the guest of honor. He could not believe that Hamon had not known, but Hamon met his gaze and held it. He was intelligent enough to have been among those who knew it was a fool's plan before it had even begun. Doubtless, he would not have stood behind such a thing. Aldebrand looked between Regis and the grand duchess; he hadn't known at all. And Felice stared dead ahead, as still as a statue. Of course she had known; the grand duchess was her sister.

"I expect never to see Lady Fallo in my court again," Regis said, after the silence had stretched long enough. "And I expect the grand duchess will have nothing to do with plans of this court, in the future. You are no longer welcome at my table, Grand Duchess Lavian."

He could have done worse than banish her from dining with him. Everyone listening knew that. Even the grand duchess bowed low with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, accepting the sentence without complaint.

"Go," Regis said.

She bowed once more, backing away, before she turned to flee down the steps and out of the throne room.

"I believe that ought satisfy any others with foolish ambitions of matchmaking," Regis said, once she was gone. "Queen Aulea may be gone, but you are  _not_ freed from your obligation of respect and fealty. Do not forget that."

And that was that, or so he hoped. Perhaps the concern of whether or not the king should remarry would reemerge, eventually, but presumably no one would take matters so foolishly into their own hands in the future.

That evening he recounted the event of last night's dinner to Weskham and Cor, and filled in the details that Clarus had missed, when they congregated in his study. Weskham, at least, had known no more than Regis had, save the woman's name, and was disturbed to learn what they had done. Cor believed Regis shouldn't have let any of them off so easily but Clarus, as usual, agreed with Regis' decisions.

"Despicable though the council's actions may have been, Regis, I must ask." Clarus took a moment to pour himself a fresh glass of wine, then leaned back in his chair. "Do you oppose the council on this simply for stubbornness' sake? What is holding you back from acting on your own interests?"

Regis lowered his glass, brow furrowing. "I have no interest in remarrying. Nor in any sort of romantic involvement."

Clarus glanced between Regis and Weskham, surprised. "I can't tell if you're trying to lie to me or yourself."

Weskham caught Clarus' eye and shook his head. "He hasn't realized. But now you've put your foot in it. I commend your delicacy," he added, dryly.

Cor stood leaning against the wall near the windows with his arms crossed over his chest. He scoffed and shook his head. "How the hell can you miss that?"

"Miss  _what_?" Regis asked.

"You know it's bad when Cor notices before you do," Clarus said.

"Shut up," Cor said.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Regis asked.

Weskham sighed and leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms across his knees. "Regis. How do you feel about Miss Vinculum?"

"Crea? Is  _that_ what this is about?" Regis furrowed his brow. "Well I can assure you my feelings for her are perfectly platonic. I admire her, certainly; she is an extraordinary young woman…"

A young woman who took care of the most important part of his life when he wasn't able to. Who loved his children as if they were her own and would have done anything for them. Who had taught him everything he knew about childcare. Who sat up with him in the middle of the night while he mourned and reminded him that he wasn't alone. Who kept him grounded whenever the lives of his people seemed too far removed from his. Who had waited up for him countless time through the night and never once complained about how much time he gave to the kingdom. Who not only understood why he did it, but admired that he did.

Who always had a smile—the sweetest smile—even when she was sad.

Who looked beautiful in an evening gown and natural with a child on her hip.

Who fit perfectly against his chest when he held her and made him feel whole again.

He had no sooner thought that than shame washed over him. How could he claim to love Aulea only to turn around and admire the way Crea smiled at him? It wasn't right.

Weskham and Clarus were watching him with infuriatingly knowing expressions. Cor was exasperated.

Regis shook his head. "I love Aulea."

"Those two things are not mutually exclusive," Weskham said.

Yes they were. Of course they were.

"Enough." Regis drained his glass of wine, set it down on the coffee table, and rose. "I have no more patience for this sort of foolishness, tonight. I am going to bed. I expect you all to act less like schoolboys in the morning."

* * *

For a few moments after the door closed behind Regis, no one said a word. Clarus was still trying to fathom what had happened and how. At length, Weskham broke the silence.

"Congratulations," he said dryly. "Now he's in love and ashamed about it, as well."

"You can't blame that on me," Clarus said. "Don't even try to convince me that his denial makes perfect sense to you."

"Doesn't it?" Weskham asked. "He is still devoted to Aulea and considers anything less than that to be complete disrespect to her memory. Why, then, when he is still so heartsick for her, would he associate some spark of connection with anything more than just that—a connection?"

"How does he reason out of being jealous of any man who talks to her," Cor said—not so much a question that he wanted answered, but an observation phrased that way.

"I doubt that he does any reasoning of that sort at all," Weskham said.

They sat for a moment longer in silence. Clarus contemplated his half-empty glass of wine and swirled it absentmindedly.

"What are we to do, then?" Clarus asked at last.

Weskham shook his head. "Let it lie. Nothing we say is likely to change his mind. Perhaps time will. Or perhaps she will. Either way, it will be best if we don't mention it again unless he does."


	13. Fidelity

In February, the six year old Ignis Scientia came to live in the Citadel. All debates had been settled, all the arrangements made, all paperwork completed, and he was now, for all intents and purposes, a ward of the crown. He would have his uncle nearby, but he would be primarily in the care of a series of tutors and instructors, overseen by his own governess. His days would be filled to the brim with lessons of all sorts, but most especially pertaining to government. It was not a fate that Regis lightly tied him to. It seemed a cruel thing to do to a child who had no say in the matter. But that was how the world went.

On the day that Ignis was to arrive in the Citadel, Regis arranged for him to meet with Noctis and Reina. Both twins were summoned to court and they came to stand with Regis beside his throne. It was not their first visit to the throne room; a royal child, heir or otherwise, was guaranteed to find themselves in the middle of the court more and more frequently as they grew up, and Reina and Noctis were now of an age of mobility. They could wander more or less as they pleased—albeit with supervision. Three and a half years old. It was hard to believe.

Ignis arrived at Avunculus' heel. It was the first time Regis had set eyes on him; the council had met with him separately, in Regis' absence. And so he beheld a small boy with sandy brown hair and glasses, dressed in a white button shirt and a tiny vest to match his trousers. He walked alongside Avun, hesitating only once at the bottom of the stairs to look up at his uncle. Then he climbed the stairs, stopping at the landing midway up.

He bowed low—a practiced motion, as if he had rehearsed the same a hundred times over—and murmured, "Your Majesty," in a voice that hardly quivered.

Regis stood before his throne, looking down. He had been uncertain what to expect. Ignis was two and a half years older than the twins, and the only experience Regis had with older children was from his—admittedly scarce—contact with Gladiolus. But he had expected a child: alone, uncomfortable, and very much afraid in this new life.

Instead he found a young man who looked very much like a child. That was the only way he could explain it. He was still too young to have learned an adult's nervousness when faced with the king's scrutiny; he met Regis' gaze squarely, with a certain fire in his eye, and Regis found all of his misgivings melting away.

Yes. He would do. He would look after Reina and Noctis, stand beside them and give his all to aid them.

"Rise, Ignis. Come closer," Regis said.

He did so without pause, climbing the last of the steps until he stood on a level with Regis. Behind Regis, Noctis and Reina waited to meet—he hoped—the third of their lifelong friends.

"Listen well," Regis said, once Ignis stood before him. "A queen cannot lead by standing still. A king pushes onward, always, accepting the consequences and never looking back. That said: a monarch can accept nothing, without first accepting him or herself. Should they stand still, I ask you to stand by them and lend them a hand." Regis turned aside to motion to Noctis; Reina was already behind him, one hand closed on his pant leg, but Noctis approached without coaxing. "As their friend. And as their brother. Please, take care of my children."

He had some apprehensions as to how this meeting would proceed. The fact was that Noctis and Reina had hardly interacted with anyone else their age. But no sooner had young Ignis extended his hand than Noctis took it, smiling as widely as if he had been given cookies for dinner. Reina was more reticent. Regis had to pry her fingers from his pant leg and scoop her up to deposit her in front of Ignis. Even then, she stared at Ignis' outstretched hand for a long while, holding her own hands to her chest, before looking up at Regis.

"Go on, my dear," Regis urged. "Shake Ignis' hand."

Ever so cautiously, she lowered one hand and finally grasped Ignis'.

"It is an honor to meet you, Prince Noctis and Princess Reina." Ignis spoke so clearly that Regis strongly suspected he had been told what to say.

As soon as he released Reina's hand she backed away into Regis' legs. He put one hand on her shoulder and smiled when she looked up at him. Someday, he wouldn't be her favorite person in the world, anymore. He intended to appreciate it while he still was.

Much as he would have preferred to keep them all day, though, he did have work to see to. It would also be for the best if Ignis was given time to play with Noctis and Reina without having a script of what to say.

Crea was at the bottom of the stairs with Avun; Regis motioned to her.

"Crea, would you take the prince and princess out with Ignis?"

Belatedly, he hoped that wasn't in conflict with whatever schedule she had planned for them. If it was, she was never going to tell him while standing in court.

"Of course, Your Majesty." She bowed rather than curtsied because she was, as usual, wearing jeans.

It took both Crea and Regis to convince Reina to let go of him and follow Noct and Ignis down the stairs. But she did, eventually—though only after giving everyone in between a highly reproachful look. Three-year-olds shouldn't even have known what reproach was, and yet, there was no other name for that expression.

Cor passed Crea and the children on their way out. He marched up the length of the throne room, stopping at the bottom of the stairs without bothering to ascend for his report.

"Your Majesty, riots have broken out in Altissia."

Regis had only just sat back down in his throne. He was on his feet again. "Your operatives?"

"No word, yet," Cor said. "The news comes from a radio report; protests have finally turned violent and Magitek soldiers are being dropped in to put an end to things."

"How did it begin?" Clarus asked.

"The same way most riots begin," Cor said. "Someone got too worked up and started throwing more than just insults."

"They'll be slaughtered!" Felice sat forward in her seat, appalled. "If ever there was a moment for Lucis to intervene, this is it."

"And have our own people slaughtered, instead?" Aldebrand asked. "Have you forgotten what happened the last time? Better that we take this opportunity to reinforce our own defenses while Niflheim's army is occupied."

"You would leave them there to die?" Felice asked.

"I see no way around it," Aldebrand responded. "Even if we could find this contact of Master Armaugh's, I, for one, am not willing to send any more of our people into an active war zone."

"It may be an opportune moment to consider withdrawing those surviving Lucians who still dwell within Altissia," Hamon said.

All eyes turned toward Regis. Regis, however, looked to Cor.

"When last we spoke, both Lieutenant Ackers and Sergeant Elshett were eager to continue their mission, Your Majesty," Cor answered without being asked.

So it was down to Regis to make the decision: to protect or to risk. Just because those at risk were willing did not mean the danger was any less. They were willing, in part, because they trusted in their commanders and their king not to send them unquestioning to their deaths. The riots provided a possible distraction and an opportunity to extract them safely, whereas before it had been much too dangerous. On the other hand, the riots also meant more troops in Altissia. Could they really trust lives to a volatile distraction? He couldn't decide without more information.

"We will need their report," Regis said at last. "Come to me as soon as they contact you, Marshal."

"As you say, Your Majesty." Cor bowed.

It took two days before the call came through: a tense few days, where Regis slept little and worked a great deal. Everything that could be done was done. They arranged for extraction of the two Crownsguard operatives, should the coin fall in that direction; they discussed endlessly the pros and cons of intervening or not.

On the evening of the second day, Cor pushed into Regis' office without knocking and placed his phone face up on the desk.

"Lieutenant Ackers: report to His Majesty," Cor said.

One of the Crownsguards at the still-open door peered inside. Regis motioned for it to be closed and turned his attention to the phone.

" _Your Majesty. Following the initial outbreak of violence, riots have been swelling for days. The streets are utter chaos. This morning, the empire flooded the streets with Magitek soldiers to quench the flames—figurative and literal both. Since then, fighting has largely stopped. Those involved are either fled, arrested, or dead. Niflheim has declared martial law. Restrictions are looking grim, Sire."_

Regis pursed his lips. Too late. Any hope they had of extracting Ackers and Elshett was crushed with the influx of Magitek soldiers.

" _Furthermore, myself and Sergeant Elshett have… become embroiled in the conflict."_

"What?" Regis' brow furrowed. He leaned forward in his chair.

" _We joined the revolution, Your Majesty,"_ said Sergeant Elshett.

Ackers cleared his throat. " _Ah. Yes, Your Majesty. I am afraid that we were forced into a decision. At the time, this was the best option open to us. While threat to us may be greater this way, it should also be possible to gain more information through the channels now available."_

Regis glanced at Cor. Safety for information wasn't precisely the choice he would have made, given the option.

"Well, what is done is done," Regis said. "It appears that leaving Accordo is no longer an option."

" _No, Sire."_

That was one decision made, in any case; whether by him or someone else, it mattered very little. Taking the gamble to save lives was no longer an option. With both of them confined to Accordo, the next best choice was to use them wisely.

"Very well," Regis said. "Lieutenant, Sergeant, your orders are to remain undercover within the rebellion. Endeavor to discover any information on the internal structure of this fledgeling force; we are interested, in particular, in establishing contact with whatever leader they have chosen for themselves. You may also find it beneficial to seek out a woman by the name of Camelia Claustra, who may have external motivation to treat with us. Is that clear?"

" _Perfectly, Your Majesty,"_  said Lieutenant Ackers.

Regis nodded to Cor, who picked up his phone.

"Ackers," Cor said, "Prior orders still hold: reports through secure channels only. Watch your backs out there."

" _Will do, Marshal."_

"Godspeed." Cor hung up the phone and looked to Regis. "So. We are treating with Accordo again?"

"We are exploring the avenues available to us," Regis said.

That night must have been the first time in two days when Regis made it upstairs before two in the morning. It felt like a week. He could do no more for their operatives and Altissia was, for the moment, out of his hands. It was best to put those aside, for now. He could have torn himself up deliberating over this or that, but hadn't he just told Ignis that a king must never look back? That was why.

Crea was still awake when he returned, but Noctis and Reina were not. The door to her rooms were open, an apparent invitation, but still he hesitated. Whatever he had told his friends, Weskham was right: he liked her and the fact made him uncomfortable. He would have preferred the freedom to go on in denial and simply take comfort in her company. Now that was lost to him and there was no point mourning it.

She spotted him before he could slip past.

"Regis." She poked her head out into the hallway, smiling as if she was happy just to cross paths with him. "You're back early."

"Most would not call this early." Nevertheless, he preferred to be called early when he was really on time—debatably—than meet with disappointment when he was decidedly late.

"Well most people aren't the king," she said. "Tea?"

He wanted little more. But every yes he gave her felt like a betrayal to Aulea; he thought of himself as a loyal husband and he meant to remain that way.

"Unless you're too tired," she added hastily.

"It has been a long week." He didn't have to fake the regret in his voice.

But he didn't miss the disappointment on her face, in spite of that.

She covered it up quickly. "Of course! You should get some rest, then. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Crea."

He left her and returned to his rooms alone. When the door shut behind him, he put his back against it and let out a heavy sigh.

What the hell was he doing? He loved Aulea, Gods damn it. It shouldn't have been so difficult to turn down his childrens' nanny when she offered him  _tea_. And yet, here he was, banging his head against the wall and resisting the urge to walk back out there and tell her he wasn't so tired after all.

He forced himself away from the door and poured a full glass of scotch from the coffee table. On the bookshelf in the corner, Aulea's last cross stitch was propped, still in the embroidery hoop. Next to it sat a framed photograph from their wedding. He had teased her mercilessly about how long it had taken to arrange the train on her gown for that photo. Maybe it had been worth it. They stood together, an island in a sea of white lace and she looked at him like he was her whole world.

She had been his.

Now she had left him with two beautiful children. He had thought that was enough; he would never need anyone else in his world with his heart so full of them. They should have been enough.

Behind the picture was a hand-bound photo album that she had given to him on their wedding night. He took that with him when he went to bed. And the bottle of scotch.

It was a long night.

The following day he faced the council and heard each of twenty different opinions—coming from twelve different people—on the instructions he had given the operatives in Altissia, the previous night. None of them would dare criticize him openly, but they  _did_ dance around disapproval by asking any number of variations on 'is this wise?' until Clarus grew so tired of answering the question that he forbade it and all of its permutations from further discussion. The decision, he informed them, was made; it was not going to change any time soon.

Others supported wholeheartedly the position of their operatives and the continued flow of information for however long it lasted. Meanwhile, a few had unexpected changes of heart.

"Loath as I am to suggest it, putting an end to hostilities in Accordo may be the only way to assure safe passage home for our Crownsguards," Aldebrand said. "Since I can, under no circumstances, offer support for Niflheim's position, I must move that we renew our efforts to reach out to the leaders of Accordo's rebellion and offer them our aid."

"I agree with Master Aldebrand," Felice said, for what may have been the first time in her life.

"I, too, am inclined to agree," Hamon said, "But let us not forget that we cannot send diplomats into Altissia. The Crownsguards themselves would be forced to treat with Accordo—and I suspect their training does not extend to such matters."

"Their position requires a certain understanding of foreign affairs," Clarus said, "But Master Hamon is right: they are soldiers, not politicians."

"Perhaps a remote conference between our people and theirs?" Felice suggested.

"Unwise," Aldebrand said. "We still have no guaranteed channel of secure communication. Even if their leaders  _would_ agree to such a thing—which I highly doubt—it would put all involved in great danger. Certainly it would jeopardize our hopes for a treaty."

It was a strange day, indeed, when Felice and Aldebrand not only agreed, but managed to sway the other's opinions in so few words. Nevertheless, she was convinced. The pause that followed said as much.

At length, Felice spoke again. "If only there were someone we could send safely."

"I would not dare to send anyone into Altissia who was not well trained in subterfuge, infiltration, and combat," Clarus said. "Even then, the risks are great. And to find such a skilled individual, who was also a capable diplomat? Simply impossible."

All they could agree upon, then, was that they wait for their operatives to report the results of their investigation. At that time they would review their options once more, on the off chance that someone had a brilliant idea in the meantime.

It was two weeks before they heard back from Lieutenant Ackers. Throughout, Regis maintained his distance to Crea, telling himself that if he said no often enough she would eventually stop offering. Somehow, that only made it more difficult to walk past her door or shake his head when she invited him in for a cup of tea. He spent later nights in his offices, avoiding the encounter he knew would come if he passed by her door before she had turned in for the evening. That cost him more than one good night of sleep, but it never seemed to matter how tired he was; sleep did not come easily, regardless. He was haunted by thoughts of Crea, chased by dreams of Aulea. Guilt and shame and a growing sense of self-loathing welled within him. When he did sleep, he had uneasy dreams.

Ironic, wasn't it, that he had just recently told young Ignis that a king could accept nothing without first accepting himself? He would have done well to take his own advice, once in a while.

For the children, at least, everything was cleanly cut and dried and labeled. On his visits to see Noctis and Reina, he often encountered Ignis among them. Though the new Hand of the Heir had many of his own studies to attend to, he was allowed ample time with the prince and princess as well. Indeed, it was very nearly required of him.

He proved to be a sweet and patient boy. With little experience handling young children prior to his life change, he was immersed with them and forced to learn quickly, which he did. On more than one occasion, Regis chanced to find Ignis reading to the twins, with Noctis in his lap and Reina nearby. Any misgivings he had about some children not being meant to make friends with others melted away further each time he watched them together.

One morning, just over two weeks after the last call from Altissia, he was roused before dawn by a knock at his door. Cor stood outside; when Regis opened the door, he passed over his phone wordlessly.

Regis made an educated guess as to who was on the other end. "Lieutenant?"

" _Your Majesty. We have the information you were looking for, I believe."_

"Well?"

" _In the past few weeks, increasingly distinct factions have emerged among Accordo's people. There is not one unified rebellion, but three, each clustered behind a different leader. The one we find ourselves in is the largest among them; at the head is a man by the name of Bernard Bakis. He supports overthrowing the imperial yoke entirely, via force, if it proves necessary. The second largest faction is led by the woman you mentioned: Camelia Claustra. Her people advocate for compromise and acceptance of Niflheim's command, provided that Accordo is allowed governmental control of itself. The smallest group is lead by one Ayleth Halia, who also advocates for a self-governed Accordo, but her platform is built on a foundation of peace and restricting bloodshed, which has garnered less support than Claustra's firm words of independence and control."_

The influx of information had Cor scrambling for a pen and paper at Regis' signal. Just one more down side of not receiving written reports. By the time Ackers was through, they had passable notes—albeit in Cor's hasty handwriting. Regis had seen worse.

Those notes went before Clarus and then the council and the debates stretched all day. Aldebrand surprised Regis once again by voicing support for Bernard Bakis. Felice surprised no one by throwing her vote behind Ayleth Halia. Everyone else at the table fell somewhere among the three, sometimes changing sides when one of the others made a particularly convincing argument. And so they shuffled around. By lunchtime they had narrowed their choices to Bakis and Claustra, giving up the smallest group as an unlikely candidate.

Throughout, Regis held his tongue. He was inclined to trust Weskham and offer to treat with Claustra, but he reserved judgement. Siding with Bakis was a much larger risk; it meant becoming embroiled in  _two_ active battlefronts against the empire, something that Regis was eager to avoid. Clarus was of a like mind. Among the council, Hamon alone remained silent with his opinions. Not an unusual occurrence, by any stretch, but Regis—and indeed, the others as well—waited for his assessment of the situation.

It came, as always, only once he had picked through every possibility and sat through hours more of discussion.

At last, well into the afternoon, Hamon made his choice. "Let us face the facts. We cannot defend our coasts  _and_ wage war against Niflheim in Accordo. To try would be to put our own lands at great risk. The empire, on the other hand, may well have enough resources to fight on both fronts. I believe it would be foolish to leave ourselves open to such an attack. Let us offer support to Camelia Claustra, and in return gain ourselves and ally  _within_ the empire."

So he had come to much the same conclusion Regis had. With Regis and Clarus voicing their agreement, the rest of the council fell behind the inevitable decision. Lucis would support Camelia Claustra, a choice that may well have decided the future of Accordo. All that remained was to find a satisfactory way to communicate their desires to her.


	14. Dream

Progress in Accordo was tediously slow. It took weeks between reports from Lieutenant Ackers, and even then, they were often the sort of reports that could be addressed in a minute. The better part of the spring had passed before they could find some way into the  _other_  group of rebels—the one led by Camelia Claustra. MTs were still heavy in the streets, which meant that anywhere they went, they were liable to be discovered by the empire, and the tension that had been brewing throughout winter cracked and snapped a few times as the rebel groups organized their own attacks on the empire's forces in Altissia. When Ackers and Elshett  _did_ manage to infiltrate the new group, they found it was not such an easy thing to simply speak with Camelia Claustra. While it was comforting to know she was intelligent enough not to make her whereabouts known, it was frustrating from Lucis' perspective.

And so, for what remained of the spring and throughout the majority of the summer, life inside Insomnia proceeded as usual. It seemed Regis never had enough hours in the day to do those things he wished to do. That had always been the case, however.

He saw his children less frequently than he wanted to; when he did stop by to visit them, it was often to find Ignis with them. One day he happened across Reina singing her alphabet. Whether that was by Ignis' doing or someone else's, Regis couldn't say. Regardless, it was enthralling. They still looked much too small to know as many numbers and letters as they did—and yet, they were nearly four years old. Four years old! Where had that time gone? He tried to hold onto it, but it slipped through his fingers. Never would he be able to revisit the years when they tottered as they walked or immediately repeated every word or phrase that was spoken in front of them.

He still couldn't decide whether or not he saw Crea too frequently or not frequently enough. Contrary to his expectations, she had  _not_ stopped politely offering to make him a cup of tea whenever he returned upstairs early enough in the evening to find her awake but too late to read a bedtime story to his children. It also never got easier to say no. He tried to hold Aulea's image in his heart when he did so and that had worked well enough at first. Recently, a treacherous little voice in the back of his mind whispered that Aulea was gone and that she would never have begrudged him the opportunity to be happy in her absence. They had always known what her health meant.

But he stubbornly refused to give in to that little voice. He told himself he was being faithful to Aulea and the vows he had made her. The little voice whispered back that he was just afraid. The little voice sounded infuriatingly like Weskham, sometimes.

Regis struck a compromise for himself by stealing away as much time as possible to spend with his children. This was not, he maintained, in any way related to any desire to see Crea. He was simply determined not to miss any other milestones in his childrens' rapidly developing lives.

"Daddy, look!" Noctis held up a piece of white paper with several colorful crayon-drawn blobs on it. They were sitting in the lounge, because the twins' bedroom was being remodeled—or, at least, redecorated—in anticipation of their fourth birthday.

"That is lovely, Noctis! What have you drawn?" Regis leaned forward on the sofa to squint at the drawing.

"This is you. And this is Crea, and Ignis, and me, and Rei." He pointed to each blob in sequence.

If he tilted his head to one side, Regis could just manage to see a set of conjoined potato-shaped blobs with a smiley-face on each smaller blob. And here he had thought Cor's workout regime had him trim and fit. To learn he still looked like a potato after all this time was discomforting. He would have to have words with… someone. His only consolation was that Crea, Ignis, Noctis, and Reina were all  _also_ just as round as he was. They were also shorter. In fact, Noct had drawn each person shorter than the last, which was technically accurate, and so Reina was about the size of a cat, when compared to Regis' height.

Reina, who knelt on the opposite side of the coffee table with her own pile of crayons and piece of paper, looked up, but made no objection to her diminutive size in Noctis' representation.

"Why don't you show His Majesty what you learned, yesterday, Noct." Ignis sat beside Noctis with paper and a pencil before him—though he wasn't drawing anyone's family. He looked to be working on whatever schoolwork his governess had given him.

" _Noctis!_ " Noctis said, and immediately dropped back to his knees and began working away with the blue crayon.

For a moment, Regis couldn't fathom  _why_ he had shouted his own name. Then he realized Noctis was  _writing_ it. Yes, the letters were all crooked and the O was about as round as any of the heads in his drawing, which was to say, not at all, but it was still  _decidedly_ his name.

Regis had had no idea they could even write.

"Noctis," Noct said again, proudly holding up his completed work and pointing to his name. "Here, Daddy. It's for you!"

Regis could only stare, dumbfounded, as Noctis passed it over. He looked around for Crea, who was picking up abandoned toys and dropping them into a chest.

"When did this happen?" He asked.

She stopped, looking up at him with a rather raggedy stuffed cat dangling from his hands. "Well, they've been talking about the alphabet for a few weeks, now. I think Ignis only recently started showing them letters."

And the rest was history.

Ignis had sidled across his side of the table to peer over Reina's shoulder. "What are you drawing, Reina?"

"Chocobo," she said.

It didn't look like a chocobo to Regis, but that may have been because it was black and not yellow. Then again, none of Noctis' people looked much like people.

"What's that?" Ignis pointed to something on her page.

"Chocobo."

"And that?"

"Chocobo."

"That's not a chocobo."

" _Chocobo_." Reina stopped drawing and glared up at him.

"Ignis," Crea chided, gently. "If she says it's a chocobo, then it's a chocobo."

"But it's not! It's a person!" He objected. "She's only saying 'chocobo' because she doesn't want to answer."

"Well, if she doesn't want to answer, what should you do?" Crea asked.

Ignis sighed. "Leave her alone." He scooted back down the table to his own paper.

He seemed to get along better with Noctis than with Reina. The same might also have been said of Gladio, but Gladio was around them less frequently. Sometimes, Regis wondered if he shouldn't have tried to find a young girl to act as Hand of the Heir, but it had been trying enough to find one child of  _either_ gender. As it stood, the only people her own age that Reina had to interact with were boys.

Noctis hummed and started drawing a new picture. Regis shifted down the sofa to look at Reina's drawing. Ignis was right; at least one of the blobs bore significantly more resemblance to a person than to a chocobo. Exactly what was represented by the surrounding field of black scribbles, Regis couldn't begin to guess. But that lone blob certainly looked like a person. Insofar as a three-year-old's drawing of a person went.

As he watched, Reina traced an oblong shape next to the person and drew a short black line protruding from the top of it. She traced the same shape multiple times over until it was shiny black with the crayon wax. Then she put her crayon down, gathered up her art, and climbed straight into Regis' lap. He lifted her up and settled her on his knees.

"Will you tell me what you drew?" Regis asked.

She pointed to the person. "Me."

It did have black hair. A solid resemblance. Then again, the whole drawing was black.

"And what is this?" Regis pointed to the oblong shape.

She didn't answer with a word, but she pointed to the empty armchair across from them where her minuscule violin sat in its case.

"Your violin!" Regis said. "Ah, I see! And what is all this?" He pointed to the field of black scribbles.

"People," she said.

Well, indistinct scribbles could be just about anything she wanted, if she packed them close enough together, couldn't they?

"People…" Regis considered. "People who are listening to you play your violin?"

"Mm-hmm."

With a pang of guilt he realized it had been eight months and he had yet to even meet her governess, let alone hear her play her little violin. In truth, he was surprised it had lasted so long—that was only more reason for him to have heard, before. Noctis had already grown bored of music lessons and given up.

"And what is this?" The last distinct image on the page  _looked_ to be a giant balloon person floating above the crowd, but he didn't want to make any hasty assumptions.

"Miss Agnys."

Agnys. Yes. That was the governess' name.

Reina handed her drawing to him and slipped out of his lap. He felt an unwarranted sting of jealousy. Once, he had been assured that he was the most important person in her life. But even Noctis' drawing featured Regis in it. He was nowhere to be found in Reina's.

A hand landed on his shoulder; Regis turned with a start to find Crea behind him.

"Maybe she just wants to share what you've missed, so you're not left out," Crea said.

How the  _hell_ did she—?

"You have been spending  _far_ too much time with Weskham."

Crea laughed. "Well, perhaps if you took my invitation for tea, I wouldn't have to extend it to Weskham, instead."

She did  _what_? Regis stiffened, annoyed, but no longer wondering why. The jealousy felt over Reina's attention was too potent, still, for him to fail to recognize  _this_ as jealousy. So Weskham was spending evenings with Crea when Regis turned her down. And why? Because he wanted to make Regis realize what he was missing? Or because  _he_ was interested?

Surely he wouldn't do that. Not after coaxing Regis to accept it, himself. He wouldn't turn around and try to win Crea, himself. Unless he had given up Regis as a lost cause and assumed he wasn't interested anymore. Of course he would have been perfectly justified in that assumption, but  _Gods damn it_ , that wasn't what he had meant to happen. She was just supposed to stop asking, not ask  _someone else_.

He wasn't sure what his face looked like, but it must not have been anything pleasant. Crea's eyes widened and she released his shoulder.

"I'm joking!" She said. "I  _do_ talk to Wes when he comes by, but I don't usually invite him over for tea."

Usually.

Crea sighed. "You don't have to make yourself suffer, you know, even though she's gone. Do you think that's what she would want for you?"

Regis had stopped breathing. Somehow, he had deluded himself into believing that she didn't know. But even  _Cor_ knew, and Crea was as insightful as Weskham. How could she  _not_ notice?

This was the first time she had made it clear that she knew—not only that he  _wanted_ to spend time with her, but that he turned her down out of guilt and shame.

"I—" Regis stood abruptly, placing the two drawings from his children on the coffee table. "I must be off. See that those papers make their way to my room, please."

He didn't wait for a response. He swept past her and didn't look back.

It was the last time they spoke of anything besides children and trivial day-to-day matters for some time. She still offered to make him tea whenever he passed by her open door, but she didn't make mention of what they both knew, again.

Regis' room was slowly covered in drawings gifted to him by his children. Even if they had each done only one per day, he would inevitably have run out of wall space in his rooms. But some evenings he sat and watched them draw, leaving that night with ten new pages to wallpaper his lounge with. It started out very modest—just a couple sweet little drawings tacked to the wall—and grew to the point of absurdity. Eventually every square inch of available wall space in all of his rooms was covered with crayon drawings. They loved it; they would run from room to room, exclaiming and pointing and making him lift them over his head so they could see the higher-up pages, as well.

Clarus laughed whenever he entered. He said it was hard to believe the king of Lucis lived in those rooms. Weskham just smiled and shook his head. Cor couldn't seem to fathom what the point was. But to Regis, the reason was simple: it made him smile.

For the first time in three and a half years, his first reaction upon entering his rooms was to smile. They didn't seem so empty, anymore.

The twins turned four, that summer. This year, no emergencies pulled Regis away at the last moment. This year they spent an enjoyable day running around the Citadel with more giant balloons (most of which were popped before dinner) than Regis cared to count, and a full petting zoo including chocobo rides. Though it was only a small party, as such things went—Ignis and Gladio making up the only guests under the age of twenty—they allowed a handful of reporters for a portion of the day, after the council convinced Regis it would be best to have the three of them spoken of favorably in the papers more often than not. It was, Regis maintained, considerably more fun than his own birthday celebration. Next time he was letting Crea plan his birthday.

The downside of announcing to his staff that he was unavailable save for complete emergencies until after his children were asleep was that half a dozen people were waiting for him at nine-thirty.

Yes, he wanted printed copies of the photographs taken of him and his children. No, he did not need to pour over every picture and choose; he trusted that someone far more experienced would handle all of that. No, he had  _not_ thought about Aldebrand's proposal regarding the industrial regulation in Insomnia, yet, and no, he wasn't going to do so tonight.

And so on.

When, at last, he had waded through all of them and his friends were the only ones left, Cor made the wait worthwhile.

"They made contact with Camelia Claustra." No preamble, no lead-in, just straight to the information. That was Cor, through and through.

Weskham turned too quickly, betraying his uncharacteristic eagerness. "They found her?"

"I got the call this afternoon," Cor said.

And Regis had missed it. He reminded himself that he had been somewhere more important.

"Come." He motioned toward down the hall, leading the way toward his own rooms. "Let us speak of these things in private."

Cor, Weskham, and Clarus all followed in silence. Once they were behind closed doors, and only then, did Regis look to Cor again.

"Well?" Regis asked.

"They verbally delivered the message you dictated for them," Cor said. "And she heard them out, but refused to commit one way or the other."

Regis folded his arms over his chest. "Surely she gave  _some_ indication."

"Nothing," Cor said. "Lieutenant Ackers said—and I quote—'it would have been easier to guess the motives of a stone'."

Weskham gave a short laugh. "That's Camelia, alright."

"Did she give  _any_ response?" Regis asked.

"She said she would be willing to discuss matters further, but they were upfront in admitting they didn't have the authority to do that. She also agreed it would be dangerous to speak over the phone or the radio. It seems as if she's taken great pains to keep her location a secret."

"Wise," Clarus said, "Given the circumstances."

"Did you think I had recommended we treat with a fool?" Weskham asked.

"Wes, in all the years we've been friends, I can't begin to sort out your taste in women," Clarus said. "But I  _do_ trust that you choose interesting people, if not personable ones."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Weskham said.

"Focus," Regis said, "Please, on the task at hand. Cor, will she treat with us, trusting the Crownsguards as intermediaries?"

"All I can do is pass on the question when they call, next," Cor said.

"Then do so," Regis said.

"Forgive me for saying so, Sire, but this is highly inefficient," Weskham said. "A diplomatic discussion by proxy could take months, given that our contact with the city is intermittent and infrequent. By that time, the situation in Accordo may have changed drastically."

"I am open to more efficient suggestions."

"Send me, instead," Weskham said.

It took a few seconds for the offer to sink in. Even Clarus and Cor stared at Weskham.

Regis' first impulse—past the initial spike of shock—was refusal. Send Weskham into an active war zone on his own in order to treat with Accordo on the off chance that they might gain some tactical advantage over Niflheim? Whatever minimal benefits they might earn for themselves, none of them were worth the risk of his friend, his brother, and one of the most important people in his household staff.

"No. Absolutely not," Regis said.

From the looks on their faces, Cor and Clarus agreed with him.

"You can't deny that I am the most well-qualified for this assignment," Weskham said.

"It is not your qualifications that I doubt," Regis said. "It is the weight of the benefits versus the cost. To walk into Altissia, now, is to put your own life in grave danger. And what shall we gain in return? The chance to lay down our cards in a gamble. The true chance of Accordo offering us worthwhile aid in the fight against the empire is minimal. The likelihood of your death is high. Do not forget they have already killed six of our people—and we, as of yet, have no idea how Niflheim knew of them, at all."

"The aid Accordo could offer us goes well beyond military support, Sire," Weskham said. "If Camelia succeeds and takes her place at the head of Accordo's new government—a government by and for Accordo, but still beneath Niflheim—she will be in an opportune position to provide us with information from within the empire itself."

"It is still not worth your life," Regis said.

Weskham met his gaze for a solid five seconds before bowing his head. "Very well, Your Majesty. I defer to your judgement. But if you should change your mind, my offer still stands."

"See that Lieutenant Ackers receives his instructions, Cor," Regis said. "Alert me to any changes."

That night, his sleep was troubled.

Many in Lucis believed that the Lucii were little more than a myth. The tombs of the old kings were scattered across their lands, yes, but they were nothing more than that—tombs, decrepit and forgotten with time. Even within Insomnia, where the power of kings was ever visible in the Wall overhead, and the people passed beneath the twelve statues of the Old Wall every day, such things were overlooked. It was simply commonplace. Simply culture. No one really gave much thought to the crystal or the ring or the souls that belonged to each statue.

To Regis, it was commonplace, as well, albeit in a different way. When he had first put on the ring, some ten years before, it had been unsettling, to say the very least. He had spent months startling at nothing and looking over his shoulder as whispering voices followed him through empty halls. To carry the spirits of one hundred and twelve monarchs with him at all times was no trivial task. But the years had dulled that. If he so wished, he could focus and turn wisps into words, so as to hear the guidance offered by his ancestors. And when they wished, they had ways of making themselves heard. The rest of the time, it was merely background noise. A constant hum of chatter in a crowded room. Usually they had very little to say about day-to-day life in Lucis.

Regardless of that familiarity, it was jarring to find himself standing once more before them in a dream.

Twelve spectral kings stood around him, as massive and towering as their statues in the city. These were not all of the Lucii—far from it—but they were some of the oldest and most prominent of his bloodline. They were the ones who guarded the city, who had the strength of will to reach out across the veil and hand down their favored glaives for Regis to make use of in the form of the Armiger.

As such, his father was not among them—at least not in form. His spirit was present; Regis could feel it without even searching, but King Mors would never have a statue or a spectral form with which to step into the physical world. He would fade into obscurity, once Regis' generation was gone. And the same would happen to Regis, himself—though not for a long time, he hoped.

King Somnus, the Mystic, the Founder King, stood central among them. When he spoke, it was less sound and more a knowledge passed between two conscious minds.

_:Heed my words, young king:_ he said.  _:The fated generation draws near, as foretold by Bahamut himself over two thousand years ago. When your son comes to be five years of age, bring him before the crystal so that he might be judged.:_

"Judged?" Regis' brows came together in the center. "To what end?"

_:We await the coming of the Chosen One, Regis.:_ That voice—that  _soul_ —he knew. It belonged to his father.  _:Your protectiveness is understandable, if unnecessary. I felt it as well, when they asked the same of me.:_

"You brought me before the crystal to be judged?" He had no memory of such a thing.

_:I did. And nothing came of it. From beyond the realm of the living, the passage of time is difficult to discern; we know only that the time is drawing near, but from a perspective of millennia, it is impossible to pinpoint a single generation. The crystal will be able to discern, however, so you must take him and have his fate known.:_

Regis bowed his head. "On their fifth birthday, I shall bring him."

And with his word, they released him. He woke without any of the usual grogginess associated with a deep sleep and an unsettling dream. He woke as if he had never been asleep at all.

The crystal—the heart of Eos: the scale on which life and death were measured. It was a wellspring of nigh unlimited power, but a mere mortal, even a Lucian king, who plunged his hand into that power would be burned to ash from the inside out. All of the royal family could draw upon the energies of Eos to alter reality in some small way. But only the one who wore the ring could safely pull power from the crystal. Even then,  _safe_  was an overstatement. Too much too quickly would burn out a man, regardless of his heritage or possession of the ring. And a constant flow over years and decades would wear him down until he was decrepit and useless.

Regis had watched it happen to his father. Something told him his children would watch the same thing happen to him. In fact, grim though it may have been, he almost hoped for it. At least it would mean he didn't have to watch  _them_ die.

But the Lucii were never really spared that, were they?


	15. Omens

Even if he had wanted to, Regis couldn't have fallen back asleep. A visit from the last two hundred and twelve generations of Lucian monarchs was unsettling enough under the best circumstances. But they had left him with thoughts of his son breathing his last breath for the throne.

He rose, pulled on his dressing robe, and slipped down the hall, barefoot, to Reina and Noctis' rooms.

For their fourth birthday, the twins' rooms had been redecorated to celebrate their full graduation from toddler to child. Strictly speaking, Regis felt the toddler line had been crossed about a year ago, but Crea assured him that from here on out they would grow like weeds.

Their small, child-sized beds had been exchanged for full twin-sized beds (fittingly enough). After much debate, those had been left more or less in the same arrangement: forming an L in the far corner, head-to-head, because regardless of whether or not they were getting along, Noctis and Reina would talk nonstop until they were fast asleep (and sometimes after). They also refused to tolerate any sort of separation. Not that Regis had any inclination to separate them, for any reason, but they had yet to give any indication of wanting their own rooms. More often than not, they still ended up in the same bed before dawn.

The wall of toys had been replaced by a long, conjoined desk with matching chairs. Those toys that had survived the purge now belonged in one of two chests at the foot of each bed. Unless they were stuffed animals, in which case they were piled on the beds to be slept amongst.

Crea had also decreed that it would be a good time to transition them to eating in the dining room, given that they could take themselves there and back with minimal supervision (they had just been granted the privilege of working the elevator, which they thought was thrilling) and could usually be trusted not to make a mess of things. Regis suspected that someone else had put her up to it. Clarus, perhaps, or Weskham. Whoever it was who had grown most tired of Regis not eating in the dining room. Four years—or three months short—was too long to avoid an empty room. And it wouldn't be empty, anymore.

He wasn't surprised to find them both in Noctis' bed. He borrowed one of the desk chairs and pulled it up into the corner of their beds. And he sat.

And he prayed, for all he was worth, that his son would not be Chosen.

How could a father live with such knowledge? There was no one he could ask, because no one knew. He hoped he never had to find out.

The prophecy was something that all of Lucis was passingly aware of, that the nobles passed down like a legend when they brought their children to see the murals, and that only the king himself truly understood. It wasn't something that had been explained to him. It was simply a knowledge—like so many others—imparted to him along with the Ring of the Lucii. Two thousand years of wisdom and understanding he had taken on when he took the throne.

Most Insomnians understood the prophecy only on a superficial level: darkness may or may not have been symbolic, but it was clearly bad, and therefore the King of Light was a good thing, so all looked forward to his coming. Those outside the Wall, who had experienced firsthand the horrors that went along with the dark, were less familiar with the prophecy. Regardless, none of them had truly considered what it  _meant_.

Not even Regis had, until he had put on the ring.

What it meant was death.

For the King of Light to come meant the world must first be veiled in darkness. It meant that the Starscourge would spread across Eos, overtaking every beacon, every haven, until the world was shrouded. It meant countless tens of thousands would fall ill with a plague and not simply die—no, death was too kind for this evil—but become twisted entities that held only the vaguest resemblance to a human, so that they might spread the dark further.

And then, when all that was through, the King of Light would come and buy back the light with his life.

That was what it meant.

That was why the mere thought that the time of the prophecy was drawing near sent a chill down his spine.

That was why he sat in his children's room at three in the morning, praying that his son be spared.

From the chair at their bedside, Regis watched the sky grow pale with false dawn before the sun breached the horizon. For once, he was present to watch Reina and Noctis stir in their bed—Noct's bed, really—and blink blearily up at him. It gave him some small comfort to have them awake, and some more to have them climb out of bed and into his lap. He held Noctis a little tighter than usual, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't be Chosen and wishing he could make some promise to protect him, anyway. But though Regis might have protected him from anything else in the world, he couldn't save him from fate or the Astrals.

To the best of his ability, he put those thoughts from his mind. One year would pass before he need think on them again. If only his ancestors had delayed and given him one more year of peace, free from this burden. Perhaps nothing would come of it. Perhaps, in a year, this night of bad dreams would be nothing more than that. But for now, they all had to wait.

He squeezed Noctis against his chest until Noctis complained loudly and pushed him away. Then the three of them sat, half-drowsing in the desk chair until Crea came in and found them that way. She took one look at Regis sitting in his dressing robe looking like hell warmed over and she ordered a coffee tray be sent up. He had never been more thankful for her than he was, in those quiet moments they shared without comment or judgement.

Weskham arrived with the coffee. After Regis' long-since depleted energy reserves were bolstered by caffeine, Wes managed to pull him away for a few moments. They didn't speak, on the way down the hall to Regis' rooms. Weskham steered him into his dressing room and set about putting together a suit with practiced efficiency. Regis stood, leaning against the wall as he finished his second cup of coffee in a muddled daze.

"Regis?"

He blinked and found Weskham standing in front of him, with three hangers in hand. Wes only called him Regis when he was joking or when he was worried. So either he had already tried 'Your Majesty' and Regis hadn't even noticed, or Regis looked worse than he had thought.

Or both.

Probably both.

Regis straightened, taking a breath and forcing himself to focus. "Yes?"

Weskham considered him without responding for a moment. Then, "You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

"Twelve of them, actually." Regis handed over his empty cup of coffee and received a freshly pressed pair of trousers in return.

Wes, who had turned to set down Regis' coffee cup, stopped mid-motion. "The Lucii?"

"Indeed."

"And… they bring ill omens?"

Regis pulled off his dressing gown and dropped it on the island. "In a way."

That was all he shared and so the conversation ended there. Better that he keep this to himself. Sharing with Clarus or Weskham or Cor might not have been such a bad idea, save for the fact that it would mean divulging a few millennia of Lucian history that no one alive, save himself, knew, and he simply did not have the energy for such an endeavor, at the moment. Explaining his dream—for lack of a better word—to the council, however, was simply out of the question. It would have them in an uproar.

So he left it unsaid. If a time came when it needed to be explained, then he would do so. Otherwise, it was a burden he would bear on his own.

And it did turn out to be something of an ill omen. Or else, with thoughts of the King of Light on his mind, Regis gave more notice to omens that had already been in front of him. Perhaps they weren't omens at all. Perhaps they were, as he had passingly thought before, simply the natural rise and fall of things, and he was assigning significance where none was due. Nevertheless, it was difficult to discount several uncomfortable possibilities, with the words of the Lucii fresh in his mind.

One morning in September, before the leaves had turned but after the chill nights had begun to blow in, Regis arrived in his office to find a rather foreboding note waiting for him.

_King Regis,_

_It has been some time since last we spoke, in person or otherwise, but my purpose has not changed. Nor has yours. To protect the crystal is the calling of the line of Lucis; to support the line of Lucis is the calling of the Oracle. It is for this purpose that I reach out to you, now._

_Since the reduction of your Wall, you may have noticed a rising illness outside your Insomnia. We have encountered the same, here. This is, I believe, a resurgence of Lucis' oldest enemy—the plague, dubbed the Starscourge, which has darkened Lucis for millennia. The affliction is curable by magic, if notice is taken early enough. And so I send you this warning: take notice._

_My highest regards,_

_Sylva Nox Fleuret_

On the bottom of the page, written in the same hand but a different ink, was scrawled:

_With the setting sun, turn your eyes to the horizon. Evil brews._

Regis read the whole thing over thrice before calling for Clarus, Weskham, and Cor. By the time they arrived, he knew her note forward and backwards.

Ostensibly, the Nox Fleurets were the ruling family in Tenebrae. In reality, the only thing left under Sylva's rule was their capitol itself: Fenestela Manor. The rest had been taken from her family centuries ago, and now belonged to Niflheim. Sylva herself, nominal queen of Tenebrae, however, was more than a ruler in much the same way that Regis and his line of forefathers were more than kings—though the word 'king' had become synonymous with 'Lucii' within Lucis.

She was the Oracle: the twin bloodline to the Lucis Caelums, blessed with divine powers in the same age that Regis' forefathers had been. But where Lucis Caelum magic was bestowed with the intent to protect the crystal, the Nox Fleuret magic was—as their title might suggest—structured more heavily around divination. They were the core connection of the people to the Gods: the keepers of faith and the bringer of messages. In a way, they were the lifeline given to the Caelums when the Astrals retreated from the physical realm: the most reliable way to speak with a God was through the Oracle. And so, in much the same way that Regis' magic came largely from the crystal, Sylva's magic came largely from the Astrals.

They had met several times growing up. His father had always told him that a king must put faith in his Oracle and she in him, and so he had grown to think of her as belonging to his court in a roundabout sort of way; even though she was queen of her own lands, he had always considered her  _his_ Oracle and she had always referred to him as either 'my prince' or 'my king.' If things had been different in the world at the time… well. It wasn't without precedent for the Lucis Caelum bloodline to mix with the Nox Fleuret one. When history said they were tied together by fate, it did mean in more ways than one, but always they had come out the other side as two separate families. Perhaps that was the reason why the Lucis Caelums had some (rudimentary, in comparison) healing abilities.

Regis' circle arrived one by one, beginning with Weskham and ending with Cor. He passed the note silently among them and waited. When Cor had passed it back to him, he folded it neatly, set it on his desk, and looked up at them.

"Well?" He asked. "Has there been an outbreak of illness I have not been notified of?"

"Not that I've heard of," Clarus said.

Cor shifted uncomfortably. "There has been talk among the hunters outside the Wall of a sort of sickness. I never had the impression that it was an epidemic."

Regis strummed his fingers on the top of his desk. It was hardly Cor's responsibility to pass that information along, but he should have heard about it from some other source. That was Felice's jurisdiction. Had she, too, failed to notice? Or had she simply neglected to tell the council?

"Is it possible that it has simply  _not_ been taken note of, yet?" Clarus ventured. "I would, for instance, not expect a marginal increase in the number of people contracting some insignificant virus outside to reach Insomnia. If it is not recognized as the Starscourge—if no one has died of it, yet, and the increase in those sick has been, thus far, insignificant—then people may think little of it."

That was a more comforting possibility, at least. Nevertheless, it was something they would need to take note of, from now on, as Sylva had said.

"If that is the case, then we will have to be more vigilant from here out," Regis said. "If we can establish whether or not Master Felice—or any other on the council—knew of this beforehand, we can move forward. I want every sickness outside the Wall documented and concrete numbers on my desk by Monday."

"That… may be a significant undertaking, Your Majesty," Clarus said.

"I am aware." Regis rose from his desk. "Weskham, call the council to session. I would have this dealt with sooner, rather than later."

"Yes, Sire." Weskham left with a bow.

"What did she mean with that last line?" Cor asked.

Regis flicked the note open and glanced over it again. "'With the setting sun, turn your eyes to the horizon. Evil brews,'" he read aloud.

"Evil brews…" Clarus mused. "Does she mean the Starscourge?"

Regis shook his head. "Why repeat herself? And why be so vague when first she was so plain?"

She spoke openly of the scourge, so it made little sense for the last line to reference anything to do with it. He read and re-read that line.  _With the setting sun_ … to the west? And what was west?

"Niflheim," Regis said. "She sends warning of Niflheim, but dares not write plainly for fear of her note falling into the wrong hands."

"I thought they were occupied with Accordo," Cor said.

"It would be dangerous to assume the can't have their eyes in two places at once," Clarus said. "If we knew what to expect, however…"

"We will simply have to make due with what warning we do have," Regis said. "See to it that the army is prepared to march at a moment's notice—keep it quiet. I do not want news of this reaching civilians."

"Of course." Clarus bowed.

"I wager they'll come back to the outskirts on our western shore," Cor said.

"Why? After we pushed them back last time, surely they would try something new," Clarus said.

Cor shook his head. "No one really believes they left because they were outmatched. More likely they were testing our strength, not trying to gain ground at all. Next time they'll be ready for us."

It was an unsettling thought, and not one that Regis wished to dwell on. Nevertheless, facing uncomfortable possibilities was a sizable portion of what he did with his life and Cor made a good argument.

"Then we keep our eyes west," Regis said.

The council convened less than an hour later, in discussion of Sylva's troubling hints that a plague was spreading through Lucis without his knowledge. As it turned out, it was without anyone's knowledge. No one on the council had taken note of what was or wasn't happening outside the Wall, presumably—hopefully—because there was little to take note of and not because they were too short-sighted to look. Nevertheless, they knew, now, and so measures were put into effect to gather information on the nature of this—previously unnoticed—sickness.

Over the next few weeks, they established that there was an illness of unknown origin appearing among the populace outside. It manifest, first, with flu-like symptoms and so few were taking notice of it at all. Doctors told their patients to rest and expect that it would clear itself up in time, and sometimes it did—or at least it seemed to. Regis had enough historical knowledge, passed down through the Lucii, to understand that while the Starscourge was not 100% fatal when it struck and did sometimes clear up on its own, it also had an uncomfortable habit of going dormant and reappearing later.

But others did not recover. Mostly it was the elderly and the very young. Their symptoms grew more and more pronounced until it was no longer possible to pretend that the illness was some sort of garden-variety virus. From aches and fatigue sprang true weakness, as if the pathogen itself was consuming their lifeforce, and the afflicted grew wan. Stark against their ashen skin, blood vessels ran in a black network, spreading tainted blood to every limb and extremity. Indeed, when blood was drawn from those in advanced stages of the plague, it thick and dark.

Regis preferred not to witness what came after that. He also preferred that no one  _else_ witness, either. The last thing Lucis needed at a time like this was panic sweeping through the kingdom as people discovered what the source—and the end result—of the mysterious illness in the outlands was.

Treatment facilities were set up—quietly—across the kingdom. Quarantine, he knew, would be ineffective, given that the source of the virus was not so much the people as it was the night air. A comfortingly small number of people were admitted, but it was still a matter to be dealt with swiftly. He penned a note to Sylva and had it dispatched immediately to Tenebrae.

The next month, they saw the second half of her warning come to light.

Court was running late, that day. The rains had come with the turn of the seasons, threatening an early winter. Half of the their morning appointments were pushed back as people were delayed across the city—heavy rains caused heavy traffic when cars slid into power lines—and when they did arrive, they tracked muddy footprints down the length of the throne room. That, at least, was someone else's concern.

Lunch didn't happen at all, which wasn't as rare of an occurrence as it should have been, but the council grumbled all the same. And just when it seemed that they might have a few moments' respite before they reconvened to discuss the latest developments outside the Wall, Cor arrived.

He pushed through the double doors, leaving his own wet boot prints on the floor along with dozens of others. Water dripped down his face and off his nose, as if he hadn't even bothered to stop between the front doors of the Citadel and the throne room to find a towel, and even his black Crownsguard fatigues seemed darker when sodden.

"Your Majesty." Cor raised his voice to cover the extra distance as he crossed the hall. "Imperials have landed on the western shore, again. They've set up a barricade along the bridge to Galahd. It looks like they're digging in to invade."

"Invade from the west?" Aldebrand sat forward in his chair. "Why would they choose a foothold so far away from the capital?"

"I don't think they're after the mainland," Cor said, finally reaching the steps.

Regis narrowed his eyes. "Galahd?"

Cor nodded and silence fell.

Galahd had no defenses of their own. They were nothing but a fishing village. No militia, no threat, and certainly no strategic importance. Why would Niflheim want to overtake Galahd, save the fact that they  _could_?

The answer presented itself nearly as soon as he had thought it: to draw out their forces.

Regis was loath to let his people and lands fall into the hands of the empire, regardless of what benefit it may or may not give either side. Those were Lucian people, damn it. His people. A king's duty was to protect and preserve; if he could not keep the empire away from them, what use was he? Without aid, those people would be left to suffer; Regis held no misapprehensions that Niflheim would conquer peacefully. They had proved that well enough in the past. Galahd, if it fell, would not be the first Lucian territory to become Niflheim's.

No, they would come in with force and fire. They would demand absolute subservience and when they did not receive it lives would be lost. Galahd, whatever else it may have been, was an Outland village, proud of its self-sufficiency. It would not bow until forced into submission.

"Raise the militias," Regis said. "And prepare the army."

"You mean to send the army to Galahd?" Clarus asked. "Your Majesty, it  _is_ possible that this is merely a ploy to force us into leaving more vital structures undefended."

"I daresay it is," Regis agreed. "Either way, we must make ready. Cor, send word to the Outlands—I want every militia across Lucis prepared for battle. Clarus, assemble the generals."

And just as swiftly as that, he dismissed the court and sent everyone their separate ways. Those whose presence was necessary for a war council were, blessedly, fewer than the full council. When all was said and done, only half a dozen people were gathered together in the war room—a smaller chamber than the council room, though no less austere, with a tall, circular table set in the center and no chairs around it. This was a room for action, rather than discussion.

Lucis' army held three generals. Most notable among them was one Titus Drautos, who had been rising through the ranks for as long as Regis had been on the throne. Ever since Niflheim had razed the rest of Cavaugh, laying ruin to everything on the archipelago outside the Wall, Drautos had been a driven member of Insomnia's army. Regis' only regret was that it had taken the loss of Drautos' home to push him to that.

But that was a tale in itself, from a time when Regis was a young prince on the front lines, rather than an aging king locked away safely in his Citadel. And it all came down to the reduction of the Wall.

When Cor arrived, no longer dripping but not much drier, planning commenced. They had the report in full from Cor: some five-hundred Magitek troops had landed on the western coast, fully armed but not attacking. They were in the process of making fortifications on their eastern flank, which, given that the western coast was an old place to stage a siege, seemed to support Cor's belief that the imperials would hold that position and strike west at Galahd, instead.

"We should attack now, Your Majesty," Drautos said. "The longer we wait, the more time we give them to prepare their defenses. They can't stand against our full might and invade Galahd at the same time. They'll have to prioritize their own defense."

"Sending the entire army across the continent to Galahd is a dangerous gamble," Clarus said. "We leave ourselves completely open to attack in the absence of any military force or militia to protect Insomnia."

"Insomnia," Drautos said, "Has the Wall for protection. Those people in Galahd have nothing. Not even a militia."

He spoke the same doubts that Regis had. But the Wall was not impenetrable. Thus far during his reign, Niflheim had yet to strenuously test it, but he had no doubt that they would do so eventually. It was not a future he relished the thought of. The constant strain of the Wall was tiring enough; to uphold it throughout a siege would be exhausting. From the outside, it appeared as if the Wall simply withstood whatever was thrown at it, but Regis knew better. He had watched his father at work while Niflheim tried their defenses time and time again. Every strike made a fracture too small to see with the naked eye, but he would feel it. Every crack, every hairline, would have to be knit and patched by his magic before the next blow came. If it was not, the Wall would collapse. The harder they pushed, the more work it was to maintain.

Even so, it  _was_ more than Galahd had. And if Niflheim did not push too hard, then Regis could hold up against the strain. For a time.

"The army goes to Galahd," Regis said.

"All of it?" Clarus asked.

"All of it," he affirmed. "Let us move swiftly and with our full might. To divide our forces will only make us weaker."

"But if they attack Insomnia…" Clarus said.

"Then we will weather their assault until Galahd is secure and the army is free to return," Regis said.

And, at least for the moment, it didn't seem an insurmountable task.


	16. Siege

Once, Regis would have been at the head of the convoy that left the gates and crossed over the bridge to the mainland. Once he would have been on the front lines with his soldiers when they went to save Galahd.

Those days were long gone, now.

When people spoke of kings, whether of past or present, they spoke of the rulers of men and the commanders of armies. They spoke of law and order and justice. They spoke of making decisions and holding ground. But no one ever mentioned the unending frustration at being unable to do anything  _but_ give orders and make decisions.

Yes, it was true that every kingdom needed someone at the top, someone who could see the whole picture and make a decision based on that, but it was much easier to  _choose_ to sit back than to be forced to. Even if he had wanted to, Regis couldn't have accompanied his army. The Wall held him here. If the empire attacked while he was away, it would be more difficult to maintain the magic. Not impossible, but benefit he could give in Galahd wasn't worth the risk to Insomnia in his absence.

So he stayed. And from the Citadel he watched the line of trucks glinting in the sun on their way out of the city until he could see nothing at all. Clarus stood with him. He still had misgivings; they all did. The goal was not to make a decision that no one disagreed with. The fact was that there was no such perfect choice. The goal was to make the best decision he could in the moment and remain steadfast. Regrets would get them nowhere. Second-guessing would get them nowhere. Clarus understood this as well as Regis, and so he accepted the order to send the entire army to Galahd.

A king pushes ever onward.

Hours passed before they had relevant news from the front. It seemed impossible that life could go on as usual while war was brewing on their border and half the Citadel was on high-alert for any sign of further hostilities from Niflheim, but it did. Regis had matters to attend to, war or not. At least it meant he had some way to occupy himself, rather than sitting around and waiting for the report.

By the time word did come through the radio later that night, Regis had already added dinner to his list of skipped meals for the day. He knew that meant just one more meal that his children ate without him, but such was life. He congregated, along with Cor and Clarus, in the war room to hear the news.

" _We've reached the front, Your Majesty."_ It was Drautos reporting. " _Cleigne's militia is here, already, but I've ordered them to pull back unless we need them. So far, reports on the number of imperials seem accurate. They've set up barricades on their eastern side."_

"How strong are their fortifications?" Regis asked.

" _They're dug in deep, Your Majesty, but we can overpower them in an assault."_

"Let us avoid a frontal assault if possible," Regis said. "Is it possible to flank them? The maps you have sent show high ground on the north side above the bridge to Galahd. If we can break their hold on the bridge before they cross, we might prevent a great deal of collateral damage."

" _We could attack from the north, but it does eliminate the possibility of forcing them to split their attentions between us and Galahd."_

"I will not use Galahd as bait," Regis said. "Move a contingent of troops in during the night. Keep them quiet; the imperials won't expect an attack from that side while they watch you gather to the east. Strike hard and fast, General—take the bridge if you can. We will send word ahead to Galahd; they will await on the other side with whatever forces they can muster of their own."

It was going to be a very long night.

Regis didn't try to sleep. He considered, briefly, returning upstairs and catching what few hours he was able, but something told him it would avail him not at all. In all likelihood, he would waste all the time to get undressed, only to find himself unable to sleep.

Clarus didn't even complain. Perhaps because he was doing much the same when he ought to have been returning home to his family. Cor, at least, had no family to neglect. And so they sat up, the three of them, in Regis' office, pouring over maps and figures and trying to predict the outcome or find some other way through that would ensure them victory. Around midnight, Weskham joined them. If it weren't for the fact that they were all the way across the country from the battlefront, it would have felt a little like the old days when they gathered around the campfire to discuss strategy for the morning—or the night, as the case may have been. Now they were old men doing the same from atop a tower behind a Wall.

At least, Regis was. Neither Clarus nor Weskham seemed quite as old as he felt, these days, and both of them had several years head start on him.

It was three in the morning before Drautos called to tell them everything was in place and receive the go-ahead. Then they waited, all of them tense but refusing to admit it, for the next stage.

From there, reports were sporadic. Their troops had engaged the imperials, but the attack seemed less a surprise than it ought to have been. MTs didn't sleep, but they had human commanders among their ranks, spread along their line. The hope had been that  _they_ , at least, would be caught off-guard. It seemed a vain hope. The commander on the north side of the imperial line was alert, even in the middle of the night. It was as if he had been waiting for their attack.

When the other half of their plan went off shortly after, that, too, backfired. Galahd's people had been meant to meet the army at the bridge. That, of course, presupposed that the army made it to the bridge. Instead the imperials held them off and Galahd walked straight into the imperial troops. Try as they could, Lucis could not break Niflheim's hold on the eastern side of the bridge.

Eventually, Regis was forced to concede that Drautos' plan of attack was all that remained to them. They summed their full strength and marched on Niflheim's line of defenses, backed up by the local militia. That was near dawn. Before the day had broken fully, Niflheim had retreated across the bridge.

Into Galahd.

They pushed back what few defenses Galahd held in place and forced their way in. Lucis' armies followed, running straight into the deathtrap that awaited: the bridge between Galahd and the mainland was scarcely wide enough for one car to pass through. All the imperials had to do was turn and dig in, gunning down all who followed after them as they were funneled into an eight-foot space. No shelter. No cover. Only death waited them on the other side.

A retreat was called but it was too little too late. They had already lost more than was comfortable and, as they fled back to the mainland, Niflheim blew out the supports on the bridge. It crumbled into the ocean below, taking dozens more men along with it.

And so Regis' army was left limping back to camp, licking their wounds, and leaving Niflheim in the one place they had meant to keep them  _out_ of.

By all that was holy,  _how_ had he not seen that? How had he let them walk straight in there? How had he thought attacking from the rear would somehow dissuade them or distract them enough to keep their full attention from Galahd? When had he grown so  _stupid_?

They didn't eat breakfast—not really. Someone, somewhere between dawn and midday, brought in a tray of food and Regis had vague recollections, later, of having a piece of toast forced into his hand, but he had long since ceased feeling hungry. They spent the morning making arrangements over the radio with Drautos and the other generals to get the army across to Galahd. Sea transport was arranged and sent for. Losses were tallied, the wounded were seen to, and new maps were drawn up. It was to be a siege, then. Not exactly their strong point. It was difficult to starve out an army of robotic men. Especially when they held so many of Lucis' people as captives.

A few reports came from inside Galahd before the imperials cut all lines of communication. It was more or less as Regis had predicted: they killed all those who stood against them and made quick work of whatever little resistance Galahd had to give. These people were not warriors. They were fishermen. At first it was a bloodbath. Then it was silence. Regis could only hope that Galahd laid down their weapons before it was too late. It was a pathetic thing, to hope for his people to submit themselves to the control of the empire, but that was the only thing that might save them, now.

That night he did sleep, albeit uneasily, while they waited for the boats to assemble and extra supplies to arrive at the battlefront. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten a full meal or seen his children. He stopped just to kiss them goodnight, but they had long since fallen asleep. He dragged himself to bed, hoping that, if nothing else, he could see them in the morning.

It was destined not to be.

Regis woke before dawn to Cor pounding at his door. By the time Regis pulled it open, he was fully awake—and full of dread.

"There's an imperial fleet converging on Insomnia," Cor said without preamble. "They'll be here within the hour."

As much as he wanted to skip everything and follow Cor downstairs immediately, Regis took the time to get dressed properly. Cor waited, but his impatience was tangible.

"Is this necessary?" Cor asked. "Lucis is in peril."

Regis smoothed back his hair and affixed his crown behind his ear. "Tell me, Cor: what would your impression be if I arrived to a meeting half-dressed and unkempt?"

"That you were in a rush," Cor said. "And that whatever matter was at handed was of the utmost urgency."

"And if, instead, I arrived in my usual state of composure?"

Cor didn't respond.

"That the situation was not so dire, and that your king had everything under control, perhaps?" Regis suggested.

Cor hesitated. "I… see what you mean."

"Good." Regis tugged his coat straight and swept out of the dressing room, not waiting for Cor to follow. "When you are in command, it is  _essential_ that you be perceived as in control, lest you wish to cause a panic. Let us not send Lucis into an uproar, this morning."

Clarus was already present when they arrived in the Crownsguard command room, where they could monitor the advance of the imperial fleet via radar.

"How many?" Regis asked, as soon as the door was shut behind them.

"Six drop-ships and something much larger," Clarus said.

Six drop-ships was bad enough. The damn things held a hundred MTs each and Lucis' entire army was across the kingdom.

"It might be some sort of siege engine. I can't say until we have a visual on it," Clarus said.

They didn't have much longer to wait for the visual. The imperial fleet crested the horizon and advanced on Insomnia from the southwest. From the Citadel, they could make out the large war engine that accompanied their transport ships: a sleek black vessel armed with Magitek cannons nearly as large as the ship itself.

"Prepare the Regalia," Regis said. "I should be on the wall when they arrive."

"Your Majesty, that is  _not_ a wise idea," Clarus objected. "There is nothing you can gain by putting yourself closer to danger. Everything you could see from the wall can just as easily be relayed to you."

The only thing Regis liked less than being told 'no' was the fact that Clarus was right. He didn't need to be on the wall. He could do nothing for the defenses there that he could not do from the Citadel. As much as he wanted to see and be seen, to offer some sort of…  _something_ , he was forced to admit it was a fool idea. A king's place was  _not_  on the front lines. It was at the top. So that was where he would remain: on his throne while the council assembled around him, listening to the reports of imperial ships growing closer, as if the whole thing was some sort of faraway problem and not one they could have seen out the window if it had faced a different direction.

He conceded with silence. Clarus laid his hand on Regis' arm, but Regis pulled away. He turned to leave, setting a brisk pace to the throne room, where the council was already assembling. Clarus fell into step behind him. They were the last to arrive in the audience chamber.

"We should recall the army immediately, Your Majesty." Felice was the first to speak. "Every minute we delay puts Insomnia in greater danger."

"And leave Galahd to the imperials?" Aldebrand asked. "We sit behind the Wall. We have no need of the army to save us."

"Let us not fall into the trap of assuming the Wall is impenetrable," Clarus said.

"Then let us discuss, instead, precisely how much the Wall  _can_ withstand," Hamon said.

All eyes turned toward Regis.

"You ask impossible questions," Clarus objected. "These things are not so simply quantified, given that we have no notion what Niflheim's new warship may be capable of." He paused, glancing at Regis. "Nevertheless, a decision must be made. Sooner, rather than later."

If the army was withdrawn from Galahd, then Galahd would fall permanently into Niflheim's hands. The chances of taking it back after the imperials had a chance to dig their boots in diminished rapidly  _and_ they would be sending their army back to Galahd after asking them to take on the force currently advancing on Insomnia with little to no breathing space in between.

If the army was  _not_ withdrawn then Regis was Insomnia's sole defense mechanism. It would be his strength that decided whether the Wall stood or fell in this war. And while he had no doubt he could not withstand their assault indefinitely, he  _could_ buy some time for the army to take back Galahd.

And so the decision was made.

"The army remains in Galahd," Regis said. "We will continue with the plans to take back the island."

Clarus looked mutinous, but held his tongue. Word was sent to the battlefront to confirm the orders already issued to the generals. They would take back Galahd. They had to.

In what little time they had remaining, Regis gave an official statement to the press. Just one more reason to be thankful he had taken the time to get dressed before letting Cor pull him away. He was in front of the cameras often enough as it was—though they were never allowed inside the Citadel except on very specific occasions. Hopefully the few brief seconds he could spare for his people would put some few minds at ease.

The imperials reached the bridge; Magitek soldiers were dumped by the ship-load at the far side, but they remained, as if only intending to keep Lucians from going in or out. It was a small blessing that Insomnia was accustomed, already, to being isolated from the outside world. As a city they were self-sufficient. If Niflheim intended to starve them out, they had a long wait ahead.

But of course, that was not their plan. Otherwise they never would have brought that massive Magitek engine along with them.

While the empty soldiers waited across the bridge, the war engine advanced. It was near enough, now, that news cameras outside filmed and broadcast the approach. And so they watched live from the throne room as the ship stopped outside the wall and a great red flare began to glow in the heart of the massive cannons.

Regis didn't need the visual to know when the Wall was struck. He didn't need the earth-shaking boom or the rumble in the earth as the Wall absorbed the blow. He felt it as if his own body had been in the path of the blast. He felt the Wall fracture and he drew strength to repair the damage. Before the second blast came, the Wall was whole again. That didn't make the sensation any less uncomfortable.

He gripped the arms of his throne and gritted his teeth. He lost track of what was happening in the throne room around him as he focused all of his attention on holding the Wall. The imperials struck the same spot again. And again. And again. Each time he poured his own strength into the Wall, channeling the power of the crystal to make it whole and secure once more.

They tested the Wall and the resolve of the king—though he could only pray they did not know about the latter—for an indeterminate time. All Regis knew was that each blow shook his hold on reality as it jolted through his consciousness. He knit the cracks faster that the imperials could make them. For now. From the outside—he hoped—it looked as if no damage had been done at all. From the inside, the metaphor of bailing water from a sinking ship came to mind.

Eventually they ceased fire. Regis couldn't have said how much later it was, by then.

Clarus' face swam into focus in front of him.

"Regis?" Clarus grasped his shoulders, as if to jar him awake. It took a moment for Regis to register it was because Clarus was holding him upright to save him from toppling out of his throne.

"I am fine," Regis said, in a voice that was rather more hoarse than he had intended.

The look on Clarus' face said he didn't believe that for a moment. Regis could hardly blame him. Someone needed to call the king's bullshit when it invariably came to light; that was why Clarus had a job.

Once Clarus was assured that Regis could sit upright unaided, he straightened and turned to the court.

"This court is adjourned. His Majesty will continue to hold against the imperials," Clarus said. "Don't wander far. In the meantime we discuss contingency plans and the state of Galahd. Council will be in session as scheduled, this evening."

Regis couldn't find enough energy to thank him. It wasn't necessary, anyway. Clarus knew. He always knew.

Once court and council had filed out of the throne room, Clarus dragged him to his feet and helped him down the stairs.

"My office will do," Regis said.

"Like hell it will," Clarus growled. He passed by the hall that led to Regis' study and took him, instead, toward the elevator to the upper levels.

Regis was too tired to object. He leaned on Clarus' shoulder and wished the elevator ride was a little shorter and included a lot more sitting down. When the doors finally opened, again, Clarus was the only reason he didn't land on his nose.

He had forgotten his children would still be awake. He couldn't even remember, just then, the last time he had seen them awake. He had also forgotten about Crea, and the fact that everyone inside Insomnia had witnessed the attack on the Wall.

They were sitting—all three of them—huddled up in an armchair in the sitting room, wide-eyed and quivering. Reina and Noctis were both red-eyed with streaks on their cheeks, as if they had just been crying. Of course they had been crying. They were four, Gods damn it, and even if they didn't understand what was happening they knew that the booming blasts of the Magitek cannons had every adult around them terrified and their father was nowhere to be found when they needed him.

"Regis!" Crea leapt to her feet, somehow still holding both twins as they clung to her neck.

"Daddy!" Reina turned to reach out to him and he watched tears build in her eyes once more.

"Ah, Reina, my dear!" Regis said. "Would that my arms would hold you!"

His legs wouldn't even hold his own weight on their own, and his children weren't so tiny as they had once been. But such things meant very little to a four year old, and she only reached more insistently, and began to bawl when he wouldn't take her from Crea's arms.

"Reina, hush, it's alright." Crea kissed her head. "Are you okay, Regis?"

"I am fine. Here, Clarus." Regis diverted toward the sofa. "This is far enough."

Clarus begrudgingly deposited him on the couch instead of walking him all the way to his room. No sooner was he seated than Reina was wriggling free of Crea's arms and crawling into his lap. That, at least, he could handle. He leaned back against the couch and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her hair and holding her as tight as his weakened muscles would allow. Noctis followed soon after, and soon Regis had both twins curled up in his lap. It was a tighter fit than it had once been. Someday they would be too big to both sit there at once, but something told him they would eventually stop trying. Hopefully not too soon.

"They're likely to come back," Clarus commented.

"Yes," Regis sighed.

No one said what they were thinking: that hopefully the imperials would at least leave enough recovery time before they did, inevitably, return for a second attempt.

"You cannot go on like this indefinitely," Clarus said instead.

"I know."

And again, what Clarus wanted to say was what he avoided mentioning: that eventually Regis would have to recall the army from Galahd. If each assault was of equal or greater magnitude to this one, he would have to recall the army before Galahd was retaken. They both understood that. Why say it?

"Is there anything I can get you?" Clarus asked.

He considered. Noctis squirmed in his arms and put Reina in a headlock. Reina whined until Regis rescued her, chiding Noctis gently and crushing them both to his chest once more.

"No," he said at last. Everything he wanted, he had here in his arms.

"Food," Clarus suggested.

Regis shook his head.

"You need to eat something," Clarus insisted. "If you don't take care of yourself, Lucis will have more pressing concerns than the loss of Galahd."

He sighed. "Very well. Send me what you will."

It wasn't until after Clarus had gone to deliver orders and see to the kingdom in Regis' absence that he realized Clarus had referred to the loss of Galahd as a thing already decided.

Perhaps it was.


	17. Collapse

Regis had vague recollections of falling asleep on the couch with his children on his chest. He also remembered someone—either Weskham or Avun—arriving with a tray of food and coaxing him to eat something. When he woke fully, an indefinite amount of time later, the sky outside was dark and the lounge was lit only dimly by the the wall sconces. Someone had removed his pauldron, cape, collar, and shoes, but he was still on the couch. Alone.

He considered going back to sleep there without ever trying to make it to his room. Once, there would have been someone to drag him back to bed and berate him for sleeping on the couch. Clarus tried, sometimes, but he never could achieve that same level of exasperated severity that Aulea had. Also, Clarus had the distinct disadvantage of not being a beautiful woman. When all was said and done, however much she was annoyed with him, Aulea would sit up with his head in her lap and run her fingers through his hair until he fell back asleep. Somehow, knowing he would return to his room without that made Regis even more disinclined to do so at all.

The lounge was not altogether empty. He could see the Crownsguards in their usual places: by the lift doors and a little farther down the hall; there were others, he knew, out of sight farther down. Avunculus was standing against the wall near the lift, as well. And, though the light in Reina and Noctis' room had gone out, Crea was still in the lounge, hugging her arms to her chest and looking out the long hall windows into the night beyond.

"They're coming back," she said.

For a moment he thought that was directed toward him. Then Avun responded.

"The imperials?"

Crea nodded, not pulling her eyes from the window.

Regis lurched to his feet and stumbled toward the window before his body could object. Crea  _did_ look away, then.

"Regis—!" She fixed him with a wide-eyed gaze, hesitating like she wasn't certain if she should offer him a hand or not.

He made it to the window, but was already regretting his decision to do so. All of the blood had drained from his head in his hasty rise to his feet, and by now his vision was darkening around the edges and his skin felt cold and tingly. He threw out one hand and braced himself against the window. The dark rings around his vision expanded, threatening to engulf it entirely. His arm quivered just from the weight he put on it.

" _Regis_." Hands gripped his shoulders. "Sit down  _right now_."

Distantly, he registered the sound of rapid footsteps approaching and more than one voice calling out to him, but it was all he could do to comply with that one order. He sat straight down and only managed to avoid toppling over because the hands remained on his shoulders. It took another moment before he could see again after that, though he still felt cold and sick to his stomach.

When his vision cleared, the first thing he saw was Crea hovering before him. She looked like she wanted to call him an idiot. Aulea would have.

Instead, she said, "Are you alright?"

In spite of his best intentions to tell her he was fine, what he  _actually_ said was, "No."

"Your Majesty?"

He hadn't noticed until then that Avun was standing behind Crea. He should have said he was fine, damn it.

"Avun, go to the kitchens and get a glass of orange juice—and tell them to send up something high in protein," Crea said.

He only hesitated a moment before bowing—an automatic response to accepting an order—and disappearing once more.

Regis gritted his teeth, ran his hands over his face, and tried to focus enough to see out the window. The imperials were on their way back across the channel with their war engine.

Crea followed his line of sight. "Should I get Clarus?"

"He can do nothing." This was a burden Regis had to bear on his own.

He shifted cautiously, wary of his trembling muscles, so he could sit fully facing the window. Not that he needed to be able to see to do this, but… well… he wanted to, regardless. Avun returned before the imperials were fully in place, and he brought with him a tall glass of orange juice on a tray. He passed it to Crea who offered it to Regis.

Regis shook his head. "There is no time."

The concern on her face shifted to annoyance so quickly he thought, for a moment, that he  _might_ have been looking at Aulea.

"Am I to understand that every time they hit the Wall you have to repair it with your own strength?" She asked.

"Yes."

"Then where do you expect to get that strength from if you aren't going to eat?!"

Yes, that was about what he would have expected from Aulea, as well. He took the glass from her and drank it down as rapidly as he was able to, though his hand trembled and his stomach rebelled at the mere thought of consuming anything at all.

It wasn't fast enough. The first blow came; it rocked Insomnia as the Wall absorbed it and Regis winced, nearly choking on his orange juice. He threw out his hand to brace himself against the window as he leaned forward, half expected to fall but not caring. His attention was already focused on the Wall, pulling forth the requisite energy, drawing upon the magic of the crystal and letting it well up into the cracks.

Crea caught his shoulders before he fell. Somehow, she even kept him from dropping the glass of orange juice. He relinquished it to her, accepting her urging and leaning back against whatever support was behind him. The next shot came a second later, rocking Regis' body and shooting through his skull. This time the Wall practically pulled the energy from him by itself, requiring of him the strength to keep itself upright—with or without his consent.

The glass pressed against his lips again. Regis made a sound of objection, turning his head away.

"Stop it," Crea scolded. Her voice was closer than he remembered it being. "There's a break every two shots. They have to reload or recharge or something. You have a second; just drink it."

He drank—she gave him very little other choice, unless he wanted orange juice down the front of his suit—and managed to open his eyes long enough to focus out the window. The ship was motionless. Deep in the barrels of its cannons, a red glow was building once more.

Of course. Crea had been watching, before. Regis had only been feeling each strike and he lost track of time rapidly. Small wonder she had noticed and he hadn't.

The glass disappeared. The red glow had turned from orange to deep crimson.

"Get ready," Crea said.

It was then, in the split second between her warning and the next shot, that he realized what he was leaning on was, in fact, Crea. She knelt behind him with one arm wrapped around him and her head pressed against his.

And then it came. Two more shots, fired in succession and Regis cringed, pulling against her as his body fought to curl against itself. Distantly, he was aware of Crea holding him a little more tightly as he repaired the Wall yet again. It was done in half a breath but somehow that time seemed to stretch so much longer than the gaps in between.

This time in the lull, Crea coaxed him to drain the last of the juice and set the glass aside. He couldn't tell if it had done any good. It was difficult to separate one sort of weakness from another in those few seconds when he could breathe. But at least he didn't pass out.

It was impossible to say how long it went on. Everything blurred together: the jarring, shocking pain of the Wall cracking, the drain of pulling enough energy to repair the damages—which grew more challenging each time—and the too-short periods of respite in between where he leaned back against Crea, breathing heavily and praying that this time would be the last. It never was. Eventually Avun came back with something else in a glass—Regis couldn't say what and he was too tired to ask, but Crea convinced him to drink that, as well. And he held on. He could hear her voice in his ear, occasionally. Words were incomprehensible, but he recognized the encouragement and that gave him the strength to carry on.

He couldn't have said exactly when it stopped, either. At some point he began to doze in the few seconds it took between rounds and so he had no concept of  _that_ time, either, except that eventually he woke to soft voices instead of the booming blows of the Magitek cannon.

* * *

Between the council, the court, the growing panic in the city, the sporadic reports from the army outside Galahd, and the imperial ships still just outside the Wall, Clarus had no time to rest, let alone to return home when the day was through. As such, by the time the war engine returned for a second attempt on Insomnia, he hadn't gone far.

He  _had_ been hoping to take a moment to stop at the kitchens and scrounge up something to eat. Instead he diverted his course to the upper levels and took the lift to the royal quarters. Avunculus was there, of course, as were the Crownsguards on duty, that night. But Clarus hadn't expected to find Crea still at Regis' side.

Actually, he found her behind Regis, arms wrapped around his chest, holding him upright as he sat in front of the window and cringed every time the Wall took damage. When Clarus entered, she looked up—wide-eyed and utterly terrified. He could relate to that feeling. But at least, unlike her, Clarus knew the imperials  _weren't_ going to break through, tonight. They would need a great deal more firepower than they had to shatter Regis' hold on the Wall, and even the slow drain on him would take months, at this rate. Oh, they wouldn't be  _comfortable_  months, but he would hold out that long. At least, he would if Clarus let him.

But he wasn't going to.

Clarus lifted a hand, indicating that Crea should stay put, and came to sit on the floor with them. His knees reminded him that he wasn't as young as he had once been, but he ignored them.

"How is he doing?" Clarus asked.

"I don't know," Crea whispered. "He almost passed out when he first stood up and I managed to get him to swallow a protein shake, but it's like he's not even conscious. I think he does fall asleep in between—but that's only a few seconds!"

The boom of imperial cannons sounded outside and fire lit up the sky. Regis gasped and cringed in Crea's arms. She held him a little tighter as the second shot fired, and he reached up to grasp her arm. Then everything fell quiet once more. For a few seconds.

"He can't go on like this," Crea said.

Clarus smiled sadly. "He'll hold out, yet. Give him some credit; he is the most powerful man in Lucis in more than just name."

The imperials fired again. Two shots. Regis tensed, then fell limp once more.

"Isn't there anything anyone can do?" Crea asked.

"Our army is across the kingdom. His Majesty has already declared that they won't be recalled until Galahd is retaken," Clarus said.

Two more shots.

"So we just have to wait?"

"That's the worst part of war," Clarus smiled bitterly, reaching out to clasp her shoulder briefly. "I won't let him burn himself out. Not even if we cannot retake Galahd. I know it's hard to witness and feel helpless, but will you stay with him? He takes comfort from you."

She hesitated, but it was out of surprise rather than reluctance. "If you think it helps…"

The next shots hit the Wall. Watching the way Regis held onto Crea's arm as he gritted his teeth through the exertion, Clarus gave her a nod.

"I believe it does."

"Then I'll do it."

The assault went on for about an hour before the ship retreated again. That was more or less the same time as before. Was it possible they were limited by their Magitek? Something needed to recharge or cool down between attacks, and they could only sustain it for an hour? If so, it certainly boded well for Regis.

The ship left the way it had come, disappearing into the night sky, and Regis lay quietly against Crea. For a moment none of them moved or spoke. Then:

"Do you think we can move him…? My legs fell asleep about half an hour ago." Crea was kneeling—or had once been kneeling, except the position had slipped so that her legs were tucked under and splayed on either side of her.

In spite of himself, Clarus laughed. "I think you could have moved half an hour ago."

He leaned forward, taking Regis shoulders in hand and shaking gently. "Regis? Wake up, old friend. You're killing Crea."

Regis stirred. "Crea?"

Crea flushed scarlet. "I'm fine! Just… uncomfortable."

His eyes flicked open and, a moment later, focused on Clarus. "Are they gone?"

"For now," Clarus said. He hauled Regis upright and Crea—somewhat reluctantly—relinquished her hold on him. She shifted her position, yelping as she straightened her legs.

It took a few minutes to get everyone back on their feet and all the feeling returned to all limbs, but eventually, between the two of them, they managed to get Regis all the way to his rooms. Clarus got him  _mostly_ out of his suit before he tumbled into bed, and considered that a victory. Weskham could deal with the rest in the morning. It wouldn't kill Regis to sleep still half-dressed, anyway.

"Get some sleep, Regis," Clarus said.

Crea dragged the blankets up over his chest and tucked him in in the same fashion she almost certainly tucked in the prince and princess every night. When she turned away, however, his hand caught her wrist. He didn't even open his eyes, but he held onto her with a surprisingly firm grip.

"Stay," Regis said.

Crea looked up at Clarus, eyes wide. He shrugged. "Your choice. I doubt he'll even remember he asked, when he wakes up."

She looked back at Regis, considering. "I'll stay."

So Clarus left Regis in her hands, hoping it was a sign that his most stubborn friend was finally willing to admit to  _someone_ what he felt for her.

* * *

He had no clear memory of getting into bed, and yet, that was where he woke in the morning. He also had no clear memory of getting into bed with someone else, and yet, he woke that way, as well.

He blinked awake, trying and initially failing to make his mind comprehend exactly where he was. It was warm and soft and comfortable, and in spite of the light trickling in through the window behind him he could think of few things he wanted to do less than move. He shut his eyes again, tensing and tightening his hold—

Crea yelped in response.

That was enough to wake him fully. He released her and looked up into equally startled eyes.

"Crea?" His voice rasped in his throat.

She was still fully dressed in a sweater and jeans, but her hair was down, falling around her shoulders in blonde waves. He couldn't remember having ever seen her with her hair down, before. It was… lovely.

She flushed. "Good morning."

"Why…?"

"You asked me to stay." The redness of her face darkened. "You wouldn't go back to sleep until I laid down beside you."

He tried to think of something coherent to say in response to that. Now that she mentioned, he  _did_ remember something like that. Whether or not he had understood at the time that she was Crea was still not entirely clear.

"I—apologize. That was inappropriate. I had no right to ask such a thing of you."

She gave half a shrug and a shy smile. "You asked. But I chose to stay. I could have just left you with Clarus and gone to bed."

That didn't fully justify it, given that he was both her employer and her king, which put him in a unique position for applying pressure even when he had no intent to do so. Nevertheless, that wasn't why she had stayed, was it?

"Why?" He asked again.

"Why did I stay?" She was surprised, then confused. "Because you asked me to! You didn't ask Clarus. And I wanted to help, if I could…"

It still didn't make sense to him. No more did the fact that they were still both lying in his bed and he still had one hand on her waist and she both arms around his neck. His mouth was suddenly very dry. He swallowed hard and tried to make his mind work around that one persistent thought that kept pushing to the forefront:

She was  _so_ close.

"Thank you," he managed.

And this was the same bed he had shared with Aulea.

He pulled away, sitting up and pushing his hair back from his face. What had he been thinking, letting her in here, asking her to stay the night with him, holding her like…

Gods damn it.

He had more important things to think about.

"I need to see Clarus," he said.

"Of course." She slipped out of his bed on the other side and pulled her shoes on and her hair back, tying it up as it usually was. And just like that he had broken the moment and pushed her away again. She returned to her place and he to his.

That was the beginning of a very long few weeks. Afterward, the days fell into a sort of pattern and all blended together. He woke in the mornings, feeling tired and much older than he should have been, and relied heavily on Weskham's aid to make him presentable. Not that it made much difference. After the first few days he gave up on going downstairs. It was better that he kept out of the public eye and focused on what he needed to do. Clarus handled affairs of the kingdom for him and came to give reports or take Regis' orders throughout the day. Mostly, Regis passed his time on the couch in the central lounge.

One good thing did come from all this: he was able to spend most every day with his children—such as his days were. He did his best to spare them from what happened when the imperial ships were attacking; it was better that the never witness him that way. But Niflheim kept no strict schedule with their attacks, and it wasn't always possible to close himself in his room in time. Especially not if he was asleep at the time when the Magitek engine came.

He was jolted awake—not by the sound, which, in the past week and a half, had become practically commonplace in Insomnia—but by the jarring sensation reverberating through his consciousness. He tensed, not breathing beyond the initial gasp, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling overhead but seeing nothing, save for the cracks in the Wall that he hastened to repair. The second shot came before he was braced against it and he tightened further, knitting fractures closed and reinforcing as necessary.

When he was aware of the physical world again, he found Reina squirming in his arms and whining. Crea's face appeared in his line of sight, concerned as she smoothed his hair back. Regis released Reina, but she only used that freedom to poke her head between his and Crea's.

"Take them—"

Two shots in succession. Regis gritted his teeth and clutched at the sofa. He shut his eyes and focused his mind through the burning pain of too much magic drawn through raw channels. If he gave in, Insomnia would fall.

"Daddy!"

"Hush, Reina," Crea said. She said something to Ignis—who had been nearby reading with Noctis while Regis and Reina napped, but Regis couldn't summon the mental focus to pay attention to  _what_ she said. He noted, distantly, between the next shots, that she did not pull Reina way. Perhaps because she knew Reina would whine, which would be even worse than having her witness this in the first place. Instead, Crea lifted his head and shoulders so he lay with his head in her lap, and she held him and Reina both through the worst of it.

That turned out to mean considerably more than usual.

Just as Regis was settling into the usual pain and exertion that accompanied one of these assaults, the lull between shots vanished. Those few seconds of reprieve that he was usually granted while the Magitek engine prepared to fire once more was filled up by something else. First it was a steady prickling of gunfire—much smaller, but still concentrated enough to draw his attention. Then that was supplemented by something considerably larger than the bullets of Magitek soldiers. All of it was centered at the south end of Insomnia, just where the Wall met the bridge to he mainland. So the army had finally crossed over.

Regis fumbled to find the best way to split his attention. The Magitek engine was still firing at regular intervals, while the MTs and whatever else they had brought across the bridge laid down a steady spray closer to the base of the wall. Regis wove a spell net beneath the Wall, allowing it to draw from him the necessary energy to repair itself in both places. It was less precise than filling each crack himself, but it also meant he could not lose the proper timing and fail to prepare a vital spot before it cracked deeper. The net would prevent any fracture from growing too large. Then all he had to do was hold on.

If he had thought the other assaults had been trying and disorienting, it was nothing to this.

When they began it was mid morning. By the time Regis regained consciousness, it was growing dark outside. He had no notion of how much of that time had been spent actively working on the Wall and how much he had slept through, after, but he was still on the couch, half laying on Crea and holding onto her hand. Clarus sat in an armchair across from them. Reina and Noctis knelt at the coffee table, making faces at each other over their dinner.

"Clarus." Regis' voice came out as little more than a crackle, but somehow all eyes turned toward him.

Reina and Noctis both leapt to their feet and ran to his side, chattering indiscernibly. Regis lifted a hand to quiet them—or he tried to. In actuality, he had only enough strength to move one finger. Crea guessed what he wanted, anyway, and quieted them herself. She squeezed his hand and smoothed back his hair.

Regis managed to turn his head far enough to look at Clarus, who was sitting forward in his chair, looking expectant.

"Recall the army."

It took everything he had to say those words. Even knowing that if he didn't, Clarus would make the decision himself. Even knowing it was the only way Insomnia was going to make it through the next month.

This was defeat for Lucis. No matter what happened to Insomnia from here, they had lost Galahd. There was no going back.


	18. Aid

They abandoned Galahd.

Regis had known from the moment he gave the order that it would not be the last border village that they lost to Niflheim before this war was over. It wasn't the first, either. In the last thirty years, Lucis had shrunk. If they couldn't turn the tide on this, soon, they never would. For the moment, Regis tried to focus on keeping what they had. Better to pull in tighter than leave themselves overextended and lament too many losses.

The bulk of the army arrived a few days later. Geographically, they were still in much the same position as they had been across the country in Galahd: on the wrong side of the bridge while Niflheim invaded a city, which had no army to protect itself. Strategically, their footing was a little more secure. Though the empire held the bottleneck, the opposite side held a city behind a Wall. In spite of their best efforts, imperials troops had yet to penetrate it.

Also, Lucis now had their boats assembled ahead of time.

The army looped around from the northwest, landing on the opposite side of Insomnia. Though there was now only one functioning road that lead out of Insomnia, once it had not been the only city on the archipelago. The other gates remained—disused but intact. They could still move their army through the city, regardless of where the MTs were stationed.

And so they did. As quickly and as quietly as they could, they pulled the army in through the north gate and transported them due south across Insomnia. They made a grim display, one which the people watching in wary awe. It was impractical, of course, to have the entirety of the army crowded at one gate, and so rearrangements and reassignments were made as they marched through the city. In the end, they had a sizable force situated just inside the Wall on the opposite side of the bridge from the Magitek army; more than they needed. Hopefully.

Throughout, Regis remained a recluse. He would have neither his councilors, nor his generals, nor his people see what this assault did to him. It was bad enough that his family and his personal staff had witnessed the episodes of strain. While Weskham suggested it might be beneficial for the councilors, at least, to understand what the cost of the Wall was, both Clarus and Cor stood with Regis on the decision. Never show weakness.

The arrival of the army was not, however, the end-all be-all of this battle. His men could not stand against Magitek engines, nor the robotic weapons that the empire sent with their metal men, and Regis refused to order his army into their midst, unsheltered and ill-prepared. So they were confined to work from within the safety of the Wall, or else organize roundabout forays in the middle of the night, in hopes of catching the imperials unaware. It never seemed to work.

"This would be an opportune moment to have the rebellion in Accordo flare up," Clarus pointed out.

They were sitting in Regis' private sitting room: Regis, Clarus, Weskham, and Cor. His private council, of sorts. They were the ones he would allow to see him in such a state, and so they were the ones in charge of handling outside affairs and reporting to him privately. Much as he hated this, it was for the best to remain unseen.

A persistent, icy rain had begun to fall outside, though it did not seem to deter the imperials in the least, and Regis found he was perpetually cold. He was bundled in three different blankets and sitting in the armchair by the window, where he had half a view, at least, of the gate and bridge where the Magitek army continued their unending assault. Since the MTs had begun attacking, the strain on him had not let up once. It was less painful than the periodic attacks from their siege weapon, but it was perpetually exhausting and every moment of every day found him wanting to do little more than sleep. Often he did.

He felt like a damn invalid. It didn't help that he was sitting in Aulea's chair, clutching a cup of tea as if it was his only source of warmth.

"We tried, already," Cor said. "Claustra refuses to treat over the radio and we can't conduct piecemeal negotiations with Crownsguards as a go-between. She has made it very clear that she will speak with us when someone with the authority to speak for the crown comes to her, and not before."

Regis could hardly blame her for either of those things. Frustrating as it was, he imagined it would be more frustrating to have an awkward game of third-hand telephone, in which he spoke to Lieutenant Ackers once a week, Ackers took his words to Claustra, and then they waited another week before Ackers brought back Claustra's response. And yet, that seemed to be the only method of communication open to them.

Weskham cleared his throat.

Regis shook his head. "You will be killed, Wes. This alignment is not worth your life, to me."

"And what of everyone else's life?" Weskham asked. "Is mine worth more to you than your kingdom?"

"The kingdom will survive," Regis said. "The Wall is not in any immediate danger of collapse."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, you can't know that," Weskham said. "At this rate it may take months to wear you down. But what is to stop them from sending reinforcements? How many of those Magitek engines could you withstand? How many siege weapons before your hold wavers?"

"We will cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Until then, you waste away needlessly," Weskham said. "So you're trading your life for mine. Is mine more important than yours, to you?"

"Yes."

Clarus looked sharply at him.

"It can't be," Weskham said. "You cannot afford to put other lives before your own."

"That is what I  _must_ do, damn it!" Regis said. "If my life is more valuable than those of my people, why do I sacrifice it for them? No. My life is less valuable to me than yours. Or those of my people."

"That isn't how this works, Regis," Clarus said. "You can't insist on protecting Weskham and pretend it's for the good of Lucis.  _Yes_ , you give your strength to protect Lucis. But to protect Lucis as a whole. Now you propose sacrificing Lucis' prospects for the sake of one man's life and that  _isn't how this works_. Your life is the single most important life in Lucis. No one else can do what you do. If you fall, Lucis falls. And if you don't recognize that, how can you lead?"

Much as Regis wanted to rise to his feet and glower down at all of them, to demand respect and obedience from them, it would rather have ruined the effect if he got to his feet only to fall flat on his face.

"And how can I expect you to follow, if I cannot protect you all?" He said, instead.

"None of us expect protection from you," Clarus said.

"Regis." Weskham sat forward in his chair, bracing his forearms on his knees. "There comes a time when we must all take a risk. If the threat on my life could secure a future for Lucis and lighten the strain on my king, how could I sit here and do nothing?"

"We will break their siege," Regis said.

"Eventually, perhaps," Weskham agreed. "After they have worn you down to a ghost. And you would have me wait here and watch this? You would tie my hands and prevent me from serving you, as I swore to do, all those years ago?"

Regis said nothing.

"What would you do, in my position?" Weskham asked.

"I would go to Accordo." Regis shut his eyes and bowed his head. This was not an order he wanted to give. This was not a sacrifice he was willing to make. Himself, yes. Everything that he was, he would give for Lucis and in defense of his people, his friends, and his family. Why was it so much harder to let someone else do the same thing?

"Very well," Regis said, at last. "Make your preparations. Cor, send word to your operatives. Gods willing, Weskham will be at their doorstep in a few days' time."

On that note they disbanded.

In two days' time, with the Crownsguards in Accordo informed of Weskham's planned arrival, Wes said his goodbyes.

One of the boats that had been assembled for use by the army was repurposed to take Weskham across the sea to Altissia.

It was a small craft, but the hope was that he would be able to slip by without notice if he went alone and swiftly. Much as Regis wanted to see him to the shore, he was confined to the Citadel for the duration of the imperial assault. He would only have slowed them down, anyway. But Clarus and Cor would see him safely out of the city and onto the boat. Regis would have to make his farewells here and now.

Neither of them knew what to say. For twenty-five years, Weskham had been faithfully at his side. When the days turned dark and cold, he was there just as staunchly as he had been in the bright of their youth. And now he stood in Regis' rooms for what might well have been the last time in their lives. It still felt like a failing on Regis' part. He should never have let it come to this. He should never have gotten Lucis in a position where the best way out was the throw one of his best friends into the ocean as a sacrificial offering.

So they stared at each other for a while. Regis stood shakily, trying not to lean on his armchair and doing a poor job of it.

"I suppose this is it," Weskham said at last.

Regis dropped his gaze. "When I first set foot on my path to the throne, it was with four brothers at my side. After today, I continue with only two."

The first loss still hurt. He wasn't prepared for a second.

Wes sighed. "Don't give me that. If you think that anything changes between us just because I'm in Accordo, then you're sorely mistaken. You will always be my king. You'll always be my brother."

Weskham grasped his arm and pulled him into a rough hug. Regis managed to keep his balance, but only because Wes was holding onto him.

"Swear to me you will make it out of this alive," Regis said.

"I can only swear that I will do everything in my power to serve you—knowing that I can't very well do that if I'm dead."

It was the best Regis was going to get from him, and he knew it. That didn't make it any easier to let go, however. Eventually Weskham pulled away, leaving Regis leaning against his chair again.

"Wes—" Regis halted him with a word. "I am sorry for every day I took you for granted, for every strain I put on you by never taking care of myself, for every sharp word when you had only patience for me."

A pained look crossed Weskham's face "Regis—"

"No. You know it to be true. I would never have become the man I am now without you standing beside me. And I never sufficiently expressed my gratitude. I thought you would always be there, doing what you always do." Regis paused and took a steadying breath. "So I say now: thank you. For everything, my brother."

Weskham tightened his jaw and returned for another hug. "You'll do fine without me. And Altissia isn't so far away. I'll be back."

This time when he stepped away, Regis didn't stop him, however much he wanted to. But Wes paused with his hand on the door handle and turned back to look at him.

"You'd best make up your mind about Crea before she gets tired of waiting," he said. "I know it's hard. I know four years can't make up for a lifetime, but you should remember who Aulea was: she would never have begrudged you the chance at happiness."

Regis only stared at him, struck speechless.

"Think about it, Regis." He pulled the door open. "I'll talk to you soon. Take care of yourself, brother."

And he was gone before Regis could prolong the farewell any further.

Thereafter passed a tense few days. The assault on the Wall did not let up, though it seemed that Weskham's departure had gone unnoticed by the imperial army. Regis held his own. But, even in his frequently semi-conscious state, he felt the absence of his old friend keenly. In spite of his acknowledgement that he had taken Weskham for granted more often than not, it was shocking to find how often he expected Wes to be there for him… and more shocking still to find him gone.

The mornings were cold and dark and ever so lonely. He expected to be woken by Weskham at dawn or shortly thereafter. Instead he woke alone and was left to his own devices. He bumbled through his morning routine without an extra pair of hands, and nearly forgot to eat breakfast because everyone else nearly forgot there was no one to ensure that he  _did._  No one chided him for neglecting to comb his hair; no one straightened his vest and his coat; no one informed him matter-of-factly that he had missed a spot while shaving. It was just as well he never went downstairs. The only people who witnessed him struggling to deal with matters himself were those close servants of the crown who were permitted into the upper levels of the Citadel in the first place.

The second day, when Clarus came to check in with Regis, he strongly berated Avunculus for failing to take charge. It wasn't Avun's fault; they both knew that. Holes had been left when the royal steward departed unexpectedly and the whole Citadel was scrambling to fill the gaps and keep the household running. But Avun was now Regis' chief attendant and so Clarus unceremoniously dumped that portion of Weskham's responsibilities on him. He needed to see to it that Regis was woken, fed, and presentable in the mornings. He needed to keep track of the king's meals when Regis was in no state to do so, himself. He needed to anticipate Regis' needs and act on them before they were asked for. And how was he supposed to do that, without the lifetime of experience at mind-reading that Weskham had? He just was, and that was all.

Avunculus was remorseful and repentant. He bowed a great deal and swore to do all those impossible things and then some. And Regis, laying on the couch in a tired daze, was too exhausted to rise up in Avun's defense. It wasn't fair that Avun had taken the fall for this, nor that Clarus had inflicted such a lecture upon him. Of course, it was only because Clarus was worried, himself. Worried about Weskham, worried about the imperials, worried about Regis wasting away while he held onto the Wall. That was clear enough, when Clarus came to kneel beside the couch and clutch Regis' shoulder and ask how he was doing.

"As well as can be expected," Regis told him, which was, all things considered, not very well at all.

He slept again, after that. But even when he did sleep it was fitfully—never achieving the level of deep sleep necessary for true recuperation, because he was constantly dragged and drained by the unending attack on the Wall. Even if he hadn't been so strained, he never would have been able to sleep, knowing Weskham was outside the Wall, somewhere, unaccounted for. Until they had word of him, one way or the other, Regis would never be able to rest.

It was three days before they heard. Three of the most tense days the Citadel had ever had—worse, even, than those days waiting for the Crownsguard operatives to check in, or wondering what had happened to the first diplomatic attache they had sent to Accordo. At the thought of what  _had_ happened to those people, Regis' stomach twisted uncomfortably. He wasn't prepared to have the same warning made of Weskham.

The wait was made that much worse by the fact that Regis could do nothing at all, save lay on his sofa and stare at the ceiling during his moments of conscious awareness. He was too tired even to feel restless. But he was listless, and every waking moment he spent with his thoughts fixed on Weskham.

Avun did what he could, and Crea kept Noctis and Reina nearby, but nothing could make up for that emptiness. Nor for the haunting fear that he had sent his friend and brother to his death. Each time that Clarus came to report, Regis' hopes were piqued, only to come crashing back down at nothing more than a tiny shake of his head. No news.

On the third day, Regis woke from his slumber to Clarus' excited tones—

"Regis!"

Regis pushed himself half upright, enough to look over the back of the sofa, and ignored the pounding in his head that resulted from the motion. Clarus marched out of the elevator. It was the first time in weeks he had truly smiled. He held in his outstretched hand his cellphone, which he passed to Regis as soon as he was close enough.

"Weskham," was all he said.

Regis pressed the phone to his ear, struggling to sit up properly. "Wes?"

" _And no worse for the wear. Though a little damp."_

It was him. It  _was_  him.

Clarus hauled Regis upright so that he leaned against the back of the couch. Regis let out a breath and shut his eyes.

"Thank the Gods," he said.

" _As anticipated, Altissia is on lock-down. I had to swim up a canal to get in. I'm afraid that boat is unlikely to make it home in one piece."_

"I would rather the boat never made it home, provided that  _you_ make it home in one piece," Regis said.

" _Well, I'm halfway there, already, so you might as well stop fussing."_

"I am  _not_ —"

He was.

Regis cleared his throat. "And Camelia? Have you met with her?"

" _Not as of yet, but Dustin assures me a meeting is imminent. With any luck, I'll have the imperials off your back by the end of the week."_

That seemed a very optimistic estimate, but just then, Regis was willing to accept it. Knowing Weskham was alive and well took a great weight off his shoulder. Suddenly, even the constant drain of the MTs at their gates was hardly noticeable.

"I trust you to convince her, Weskham. Though I swear I will speak with her personally as soon as the situation is less strained."

" _I'll pass on your promises. And she will come around; Camelia's first concern is for Accordo—if we can provide the support she needs to protect her people, she'll accept."_

"I can only hope you are correct, but never have you led me astray, before. Godspeed, Weskham."

" _And you, Sire,"_  Wes said. " _And—Regis?"_

"Yes?"

" _Take care of yourself, you old fool."_

Regis laughed, in spite of himself.

After that night, he slept more soundly than he had in weeks.


	19. Retreat

In other circumstances, he might have been kept awake by the presence of two four year olds and a seven year old running circles around his sofa, but he was too exhausted to take much note of them. He did take some comfort, though, in having Reina or Noctis curl up against his chest and nap with him. That was the only good thing to come of those weeks.

Well. Perhaps not the  _only_ good thing.

When Avun was reluctant to make demands of Regis, even in Regis' best interests, Crea stepped up, firmly assertive. When Avun woke him hesitantly to try to convince him that it was high time he retired to bed and met only with obstinacy, Crea was standing behind with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Sire, I really must insist," Avun said. "It is well past midnight, and—"

"Then I will sleep here all night." Regis waved a dismissive hand. "Leave me."

Crea rolled her eyes, grabbed his arm, and hauled him upright. "You're acting like a child. Endearing as that may be, no child misses bedtime on  _my_ watch. Come on. Up you get."

He was too surprised even to protest as she pulled his arm over her shoulders and heaved him up to his feet. He swayed and would likely have fallen, but she put one arm around his waist and held him steady. Even now he could hear the none-too-distant sound of gunfire at the edge of Insomnia; the drain on him had become a constant, nagging sensation in the back of his mind. He might have overlooked it, but for how exhausting it was to constantly maintain the spell net that repaired the Wall.

"I wish to sleep," he mumbled, hardly noticing that his feet were already moving toward his bedroom.

"I know."

He had some vague recollection of being taken to his room and helped into bed. The moment his head touched the pillow he lost hold on consciousness for a few breaths. He woke, briefly, to Crea urging him upright once more, and meekly complied. When next he managed to open his eyes he was out of his suit entirely and tucked into bed.

"Sleep well, Regis." She pulled the blankets securely up to his chin and turned away. He wanted to tell her to stay, again, but couldn't find the strength to form even that one word.

He slept. And he woke to the booming of the Magitek cannons and pain shooting through his body as magic tore through him on its way to fuel the Wall's repair. No more than a few rounds had been fired before Crea was at his side, again, sitting on the edge of his bed and letting him hold onto her hand as tight as he pleased—as tightly as he could manage.

When morning came, though he had no recollection of the end of the assault or falling fully asleep, he woke to sunshine pouring in through his bedroom windows. And Crea was still with him, stretched out in his bed, asleep with her arms around his shoulders as he rested his head on her stomach. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

The next time he woke, his bed was even more crowded.

And more wiggly.

"Shh, Noctis! Your dad is sleeping. You need to be quiet"

"Daddy!"

"Noct. Daddy  _sleeping._ "

"Reina, strangling your brother is not going to help."

"It might," Regis said.

It took another moment for him to sort out exactly where he was. It was dark and warm and comfortable—save for the little hands that grasped the back of his shirt and pulled.

"Regis!" Crea's voice came from above, and also from very close by.

He opened his eyes to find himself in much the same position he had been, before: still laying against Crea's stomach with his arms wrapped around her. He had no particular inclination toward moving, anytime soon. But Noctis was insistent on changing that.

"Daddy's awake!" Noct pulled at Regis' shoulder, bouncing on the bed.

"I am," Regis groaned, rolling over—reluctantly releasing Crea half-way—to grab Noctis and crush him into a hug. "Very much thanks to you, young rascal."

Reina threw herself on top of both of them, hugging as far as her little arms would let her.

"I'm sorry!" Crea said. "I wouldn't have let them in, but they came looking for me and…"

"Crea!" Reina held out one hand toward her, insisting that she join the group hug.

Crea hesitated, glancing at Regis, as if she wasn't certain she belonged there anymore. As if she didn't have as much invested in his family as he did. Regis smiled. He still half one arm around her, and he pulled her into the hug, as well.

"There is nothing to forgive," he said.

Except that Avun was going to arrive, soon, and endeavor to make good on his promise to Clarus to step up and take over some of Weskham's responsibilities, and there was little Regis wanted less than to move, just then. For all the good it would do, anyway. Niflheim was still outside the wall and not even Weskham could make Regis look like a king, these days. But at least the prospect of having Avunculus replacing Wes was less depressing, given that he now knew Weskham was safe—or as safe as anyone could be expected to be, in Altissia, at the moment.

Nevertheless, Regis  _did_ rise to face the day. Eventually. And, as expected, getting out of bed was more or less a waste, anyway. He spent the vast majority of that day on the sofa. And the day after that, as well. With an aggressive push from Lucis' own army, the Magitek soldiers and armors at the gate had been forced back, which did give Regis  _some_ reprieve. By then he desperately needed it. He joked half-heartedly that he would have more grey hair in his head when this was all over.

Less than a week after Weskham's previous call, they received the message they had all been waiting for—though he left it short and cryptic:

" _Relief is coming. Hold on tight."_

Later, Regis heard the then-famous tale of Weskham's reunion and negotiation with Camelia, repeated from multiple points of view. Weskham humbly stated that Camelia always had good sense where politics were concerned, and a nose for profit. Camelia—exasperated—only said that Weskham was just as charming as ever. But the long and short of it was that, among Accordo's underground population, Lucis declared open support for Camelia's cause. The smallest of the rebel groups folded into hers at the news, ostensibly because they felt outside aid gave Camelia's group the greatest chance of success. Privately, Regis was certain Wes had something to do with  _that_ , as well. With two-thirds of the rebel population combined under one leader, it had been only too easy to convince the final group to join them—though they did so much more grudgingly.

After that, the fighting broke out in full and organized fashion. Whereas before, Altissia had been little more than the host of riots often turned violent, they now concentrated their efforts, drawing up proper forces and strategies.

And that was just what they needed.

It was some time past afternoon, and Regis sat in the upstairs lounge—tired but upright—while Reina sat between his knees and drew. The elevator clanged as it arrived and Clarus pushed out from between the doors without waiting for them to open all the way.

"They're leaving."

Regis straightened, pulling his eyes from Reina's picture—a snowman, complete with ten fingers on his stick arms—and looking at brow furrowed.

"The imperials?" He asked.

"They're packing up and flying away," Clarus confirmed. "Whatever Weskham did, it worked."

Regis lifted Reina and set her down on her feet, so he could stand, himself. He followed Clarus to the window, hardly willing to believe those tidings until he saw the truth of them for himself. And, indeed, when he stood looking south from the Citadel, the Magitek soldiers were retreating across the bridge and loading back aboard their dropships. The Lucian army gave chase, taking full advantage of the turned backs. The other Magitek engine—the one that had haunted Regis' sleeping and waking hours for more weeks than he cared to count, now—was nowhere to be seen and the vast majority of the Magitek armors had already been loaded aboard ships to be taken away.

"You think they return to Accordo?" Regis asked.

"Where else? Weskham did say relief was coming," Clarus said.

Crea had followed them to the window, Reina had followed Crea, Noctis had followed Reina, and Ignis had followed Noctis. Now they all stood in a mismatched line, staring out at the backs of hundreds of Magitek soldiers—so far away they were barely a haze of movement beyond the Wall.

"We can only hope he did not endanger himself too much to buy our freedom," Regis said. "Regardless, we will need to meet with the council and the generals. Precautions must be put into place to prevent us from being pinned down again. We have a great deal of work to do."

"Not today," Clarus said. "Today you rest—take a good night's sleep for the first time in weeks. You need it."

"I assure you, that is not necessary."

"Oh no? You look like shit, Regis," Clarus scowled.

" _Clarus_ ," Crea hissed. " _Language_!"

Clarus' eyes darted past her toward the children. He cleared his throat. "You look terrible," he amended.

"Thank you," Regis said dryly.

"You're not up for this and you know it. The kingdom will not be any more poorly off tomorrow morning than it is right now.  _Rest_. Recover your strength. And maybe, in the morning, Avun can make you look more like a king and less like a vagrant."

Regis seriously doubted that last part was possible. Competent though Avunculus may have been, he wasn't a miracle worker.

Not like Wes.

Nevertheless, Regis assented. Whatever stubbornness and pride dictated he do, Clarus was right; he didn't have the strength to hold court or council, just now. The last assault on the Wall had been only that morning. So he did as Clarus instructed and remained upstairs with his family for one evening more. He dozed on the sofa until evening, when Crea and Avun both prodded him into eating dinner, then he retired to his room and, for what seemed the first time in a very long time, managed to get himself entirely out of his own suit before falling into bed.

He slept soundly, blissfully deep and uninterrupted. Dawn came and went. His overtired body and mind refused to rouse at that once-natural time; instead they seemed determined to take advantage of the lack of interruptions. By the time he finally did stir, the sun was well over head and the grandfather clock near his bedroom door said it was nearing noon. It may have been the latest he had ever slept. Certainly the latest since he was out of adolescence.

To wake so late in the day left him with a disoriented uncertainty, as if the time his mind believed it to be was mismatched with the time the rest of the world claimed it was. He rolled out of bed, took a scorching shower in vain hope of waking himself up, and pulled on a clean suit. The dressing room mirror distracted him as he tied off his necktie; dark circles around his eyes gave his whole face a sunken, unhealthy look. In fact, he wouldn't have been surprised to find he had lost several pounds. His hair needed to be cut. His beard desperately needed a trim. And, after all the complaining about it he had done, his hair  _was_ more silvered than it had been, when last he looked closely at himself in the mirror.

He ran his fingers through his hair, inspecting his reflection critically. It wasn't really  _greying_ —that was to say, at least, that it wasn't so much that he had sprouted more grey hairs, but that the very tips of some strands had gone silver. A peculiar way to go about aging, but that was just how the magic worked, he supposed. At least he wasn't losing his hair, like Clarus.

Someone tapped on the hall door, tentatively.

"Enter," Regis said automatically.

The door opened and Avun's head appeared in the gap. "Ah, Your Majesty. I had begun to fear you would sleep all day."

"I nearly did."

Weskham never would have let him sleep so late.

Avun let himself in as Regis dabbed shaving cream across his face and neck. He had gotten no farther than lifting the razor before Avun was there, taking over.

Alright, that was a lie. Wes would have let him sleep all day. Out of all his friends, Weskham was the one most prone to fussing over him. Then again, he was also the one who hid his concerns best and acted on them most efficiently. It was a tradeoff that Regis had been willing to make.

To his credit, Avun didn't comment on the grey hairs. He put Regis' beard back into a presentable state, muttered something about giving him a haircut later on—perhaps  _that_ was a veiled comment about the grey—and saw Regis into the rest of his suit. When Avunculus was through with him, Regis  _did_ look more like himself than he had done in several weeks.

"Master Amicitia said that he would meet you in court, whenever you awoke, Sire," Avun said.

So they were all conspiring to let him sleep in, were they? He wasn't an invalid, yet, damn it.

He went and Avun remained at his heel. They stopped off only briefly to bid good morning—though it could no longer be called morning—to Noctis and Reina, who were hard at play with Ignis, before they continued on downstairs. Each person they passed—whether Citadel staff or government official—bowed in greeting to Regis, but he didn't miss the tinge of surprise that each of them wore. Had he really been hidden away for so long?

Inside the court was no different. They rose and bowed as he passed by, then exchanged looks or whispered words once he was past. He squared his shoulders and moved one, refusing to dwell on it. He did what was necessary for Lucis and they knew what that cost, even if they denied it; most of them had watched his father waste away underneath the weight of the Wall.

The fact was that he  _did_ feel older that morning than he ever had before in his life. His joints ached. Hell, the bones themselves seemed to ache. All the official documents may have had him listed as only thirty-four, but he felt at least fifty, today. He tried not to think about that as he climbed the stairs to the throne. He almost refused to sit, just out of spite to his body, but ultimately he decided it looked better if he did take his seat.

At least Clarus had kept him fairly well up to date while he was out of the public eye and locked away upstairs. The holes to be filled in, now, were merely the most recent updates.

"Clarus." Regis motioned. "The state of Galahd."

"Our watchtowers report no change, as of yet, in the imperial forces occupying Galahd," Clarus said. "We have seen no Magitek ships enter or leave the area."

"We should strike now, regardless," Aldebrand said. "We withdrew our forces only to protect Insomnia, but with that threat now gone, we should hit the imperials harder still. They will not be prepared for a second attempt so soon."

"There's no telling what they may or may not be prepared for," Felice said. "Our soldiers need more time to recover, and we have other matters that require our attention. We may not be able to take back Galahd; but we  _can_ fight back against this plague in the Outlands."

"Can we?" Aldebrand asked. "It seems to me that we have a much greater likelihood of standing against a physical foe than an incorporeal one."

"The two things are not, so far as I can see, mutually exclusive," Hamon said.

"Indeed," Clarus said. "The resources will have to be dedicated toward treatment and containment of this plague, regardless. The choice to send the army back to Galahd or not is an independent choice. Your Majesty?"

"Until Niflheim shows signs of withdrawing from Galahd, at least in part, we cannot afford to send our troops in an effort to retake it," Regis said. "For now we shall watch and we shall wait."

Perhaps they would get lucky and the empire would pull at least some of their MTs from Galahd. But it went unspoken, but understood, that his decision meant there was a possibility that Galahd would never be retaken. The truth settled heavily over the court. It was a sacrifice he had to make; their army was in poor shape to deploy again so soon after the attack on Insomnia. To try again so soon with no change in the odds would be all but a death sentence for the Lucian people. Much as he hated to admit it, there were times when the well-being of the minority must be sacrificed for that of the majority. Though he didn't much like the thought, the analogy of amputation came to mind.

As for the rest of their troubles: the Starscourge had not spread as rapidly as they had feared. Of those who had come down with the disease, only a small percentage had worsened. Many had gotten better on their own, which seemed nothing short of a miracle when one thought of the legends surrounding the power of the scourge. But Regis knew better than to fall into that trap. The strength of the darkness waxed and waned with the ages; those dark years that people told stories of, where the Starscourge ravaged Eos as a veritable plague, were of a time when that power had been at its peak. Since then, it had been driven back—more than once—by different Lucian monarchs. None of them had ever destroyed it, however. That ability was out of their reach. The prophecy foretold that there was but one who would have the strength to banish the Starscourge for good. And that one was the King of Light.

Regis' stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. The power of the Starscourge was building again and the Lucii warned that the time of the King of Light was nearly at hand. He refused to think about the wider implications of that, right now.

No one offered up any arguments or disagreements on his verdict. They could do little more than wait and watch, where Galahd was concerned, for now. Even if Niflheim did withdraw, chances that they could hold it against another attack were slim to none. Better that they face that fact, now.

Needless to say, it was not a cheerful day. By the time the sun set, Regis was almost beginning to miss the long days and nights spent locked way upstairs. Yes, they had been utter misery. But at least he had been with his children. By the time they were through for the day—or, more accurately, when he was as caught up as he was likely to be before the hour became prohibitively late—Reina and Noctis had long since gone to sleep and Regis was left with nothing but dark thoughts to occupy his mind until dawn.


	20. Whole

It was a few more weeks before Regis was prepared to hunt Cor down and submit himself to the next session in a long—broken—line of painful morning workouts. When he did so, Cor looked at him dubiously, but only shrugged without offering any verbal judgement. For that, at least, Regis was grateful. He didn't need any more young men telling him how old he was getting. He knew well enough when his bones ached in the cold and his joints cracked when he walked. Not even the haircut Avun had given him had eliminated the silver highlights in his hair. He was beginning to resign himself to old age.

They left the Citadel together. The weather outside was sharp and cold, but the pathway that wound through the garden was just dry enough to not justify staying inside. What little snow had come during the thicker part of the winter was slowly sublimating, as if it had given up hope of the weather ever growing warm enough to truly melt, but had grown tired of waiting for spring. But it was early, yet. Doubtless there would be more snow, before spring was made official. Of that fact, Regis was ambivalent. On the one hand, he had spent too many years of his life in staunch opposition to the snow to fully appreciate it. On the other, it was difficult to truly hate something that brought so much joy to his children.

Neither Regis nor Cor were surprised when they made it only one lap around the garden—and a slow one, at that—before Regis was too done in to continue. Regis was surprised, however, when Cor skipped the rest of the morning's prescription and lead them back indoors.

Clarus was waiting for them. "Not overdoing it, I hope."

Regis couldn't help but be reminded a little of a mother hen, clucking over a bedraggled chick come in from the rain.

"We're only running, now," Cor scowled. "I haven't forgotten."

"Forgotten what?" Regis asked.

Clarus and Cor exchanged a look. When  _those two_ started conspiring together, it was a dire time, indeed.

"I only warned him not to push you too hard," Clarus said. "The ring takes its toll, as we all well know."

"Is that so?" Regis asked.

So that was why they had skipped half of Cor's workout. Clarus had guilted him into it. A shame, if that was what he now had to work against. Before the attack on Insomnia, he had worked his way up to…

No. He hadn't, had he? He hadn't worked his way  _up_  anywhere at all.

When they had first started doing this, Regis had been a little over halfway to passing the Crownsguard exams, so far as push-ups and pull-ups were concerned, and the runs Cor had first taken him on were of a length with the guard's physical fitness test. He would spend a few months improving slowly—as was expected—and then would come a day where the Wall seemed to drag at him more keenly than the others. His performance would drop below where it had been at the beginning… and though he worked to regain the lost progress, he would never fully recover it before the Wall knocked him back down. Four years ago he had been doing  _better_  than he was, now—even before Niflheim's attack.

And Cor had never said a word to him. He had only ever reduced the load.

"Tell me," Regis said, "When you chose to restrict my physical activity, did it ever occur to you that I should like to know?"

"It wasn't like that, Regis," Clarus said. "Cor was concerned about your progress and I merely told him not to worry and not to press you."

"And yet, you made that decision and gave that order with no input from me," Regis said.

"You know as well as I do what the cost of the ring is."

"Which is precisely why it is my choice, and no other's," Regis said. "I am capable of managing my own affairs, you are aware?"

It was beginning to grate on him how much Clarus and Weskham still treated him like a child who couldn't take care of himself. If he could rule Lucis, surely he could handle a jog around the grounds—or know himself well enough to say he  _couldn't_ handle it.

"I am well aware," Clarus said. "I am also aware that there are few more stubborn than you in all of Lucis."

Regis made a sound of annoyance. "Mind your tongue, Clarus." He glanced at Cor, who was still standing by, tight-lipped. "And you are as bad as he. I invited you into my inner circle because I believed you unlikely to be swayed by the words of others and resolute enough to speak your own mind. Have I misjudged you?"

"No, Your Majesty," Cor said. "I only did what I judged was best."

"The next time you make a judgement that concerns me, it would behoove you to gather all the facts," Regis said.

Cor bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."

He, at least, was cowed. Clarus was not so easy to turn aside.

"I will do what it takes to protect my king," Clarus said. "Even from himself."

"Do not convince yourself that this was for my benefit, rather than to satisfy your own excessive fretting," Regis said. "I do, and have done, fine on my own."

He turned and strode away, not waiting for another response, which Clarus doubtless had prepared. He was through with arguments for the day.

That morning dispute set the tone for the rest of Regis' day. News from Galahd was much the same, and news from Accordo was scarce or nonexistent. Fighting went on; beyond that, they knew nothing. By the time the sun set, he couldn't have even said whether Weskham and the other Lucians in the city were still alive. He liked to think they were wise enough to keep out of that mess, but the Crownsguards  _had_ joined the rebel group, hadn't they? And though Weskham had crossed the sea as an envoy and a diplomat, he would also have felt some sense of obligation to participate in the revolution he had just set in motion. Regis knew him too well to think otherwise. Someday, that sense of honor would get him in trouble. Hopefully, today was not that day.

Even without news, Regis' day was full to bursting with all the things he had neglected during his absence from court. Clarus had handled matters well enough without him, but now there was a sense that everyone wanted every decision reaffirmed. As if Regis hadn't known they were being made in the first place. Precisely what did they think he had been doing during those weeks?

Nightfall found him in his study pouring over bills and signing documents until his hand and eyes ached. A knock at the door broke his focus and he looked up to find Clarus there.

"I'm leaving for the night," he said. "Don't lose any sleep over those—there's no rush."

He meant well, but Regis was only reminded of their row earlier in the day. And what had prompted it.

"I am well aware," Regis said in clipped tones. "Thank you."

It was foolish and petulant. It wasn't as if no one had ever told him off for staying up too late, before—and, perhaps, even rightly so. But something about having been stripped of so much of his strength made him more irate than usual about such things. It was easier to face their fretting and fussing if all the concerns were unfounded; he could counter with exasperation.

When, instead, he woke in the mornings in a body that was determined to remind him he wasn't getting any younger, when he had relied on someone else's arm or shoulder more often than not to make it to his bed at night the past few weeks, and when he came out the other side unable to complete even half of the workout he had been capable of before, it was more difficult to deny what they all knew: whatever grasp of youth he had held onto thus far into his life was gone. He was a man of middling age without having even reached forty. From here out, his health would deteriorate at an accelerated pace and nothing—no amount of knowledge or experience—could prepare him for accepting this day more gracefully.

Perhaps Clarus understood that. Whatever the reason, he only sighed and left the bait where it was.

"Goodnight, Regis." He left, shutting the door behind him.

Regis ran his hands over his face. Eleven years he had worn the ring. Even having watched his father succumb to it, even having known that he would, too, he hadn't been prepared. He still wasn't. How much longer could he go on? Twenty years? How long before he  _would_ have to worry about which of his children would take the throne? Whatever fate held in store for them, Regis refused to pass the burden of the Wall to one of them along with everything else the throne entailed. How could he condemn either child to a half life?

Then again. That had already been done, hadn't it?

No. He refused to think about that. Noctis wasn't Chosen, yet, and Gods damn it all, he wouldn't—couldn't—

Regis set his work aside and rose from his desk. If he was going to let his mind wander to dark places, it was high time to put an end to the night. He returned upstairs to the royal wing and stood for several moments, hesitating in the doorway to Reina and Noctis' room. It almost hurt too much just to go in and see them. The air was thick and stagnant with mortality, tonight. If he couldn't even face his own children, what did that make him? Worse than an old king with no time for them.

Down the hall, Crea's door opened. "Regis?"

"How were they, today?" He asked without turning to look at her. From the doorway he could just see them both slumbering soundly—in their own beds, for once. He hadn't even taken breakfast with them. Again. How many days in a row had that been?

"Golden, as usual." Crea came to stand beside him in the doorway, keeping her voice low. "Agnys is teaching Reina a new song on the violin. Noctis read a whole book all by himself. Shouted a whole book, I should say. You know, you'll have to decide soon what happens next year for school. If you wanted to send them to a private school in the city or keep them here and hire more tutors... Both have their pros and cons, but—"

Regis made a pained sound and she stopped talking. Once he had been of the opinion that keeping them in the Citadel for their education would be the best course of action. But how were they to make friends and have a life outside of royalty if he did that to them? He should send them to school, for their own good… just now he wasn't feeling well-equipped to deal with the consequences of that.

Crea squeezed his arm. "Tea?"

She never had stopped asking, even though he never had said yes after the first time he turned her down. He glanced down at her and Weskham's words came back to him:

" _You should remember who Aulea was: she would never have begrudged you the chance at happiness."_

Maybe it was that. Maybe it was a long day, wearing away at the guilt he usually experienced when he looked at Crea and felt anything at all for her. Maybe it was having argued with Clarus and Cor, and having nowhere else to turn when his mood went black. Whatever the reason, he surprised both of them by accepting.

"Tea sounds lovely."

She recovered from the shock quickly and led him back to her room, where she set about brewing two hot mugs of tea. He dropped onto the couch and watched her move: the way she crossed her feet and stood up on her toes to reach the shelf above the sideboard; the way she tucked her loose bangs behind her ear, only to have them fall forward again a moment later; the way she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows to free her arms, and then tugged them back down so they hung half covering her hands; the way she tapped her nails on the sideboard while waiting for the water to boil. She glanced over her shoulder at him and caught him staring at her. Her face flushed a sweet rose pink, but she smiled anyway.

In a few minutes, she had come to sit beside him on the couch with two mugs of tea. This time, his had a cactuar lounging in the hot water with its arms secured over the side of the cup.

"How many of these do you have?" Regis asked.

"Tea infusers? Too many," Crea said. "They're too cute to pass up."

For a while they simply sat in silence, watching the steam rise off the tea. There were so many things he wanted to tell her and so few he could. The fate that threatened Noctis hung over him like an executioner's axe, but he could not share that. Whatever happened when the summer came, the knowledge of the crystal's choice was not a burden he would willingly put on her shoulders. He also couldn't tell her about any of the unspoken sensations swimming around in his stomach, just from sitting on her couch.

But he could, at least, lean back with a groan and admit, "I am growing old."

She gave him a critical look and leaned forward to remove the infusers and set them on a small plate so they wouldn't drip on the coffee table.

"You aren't even forty," she said.

"I know," he sighed. "It would be easier to bear if I were a little older."

She passed him his tea, which he took gingerly in hand and managed to avoid burning his fingers, and turned to sit cross-legged and sideways on the couch facing him with her mug held between both hands. She studied him for a moment, before she spoke again.

"They say the Ring of the Lucii makes the king age faster," she said.

"It does."

Her eyes flicked over his face. She took in the silver feathering of his hair, the faintly deepening wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and between his brows.

"You wear it well," she said.

Whatever he had expected from her, that was not it. He must have looked skeptical, for she chose to clarify her comment.

"You look dignified and distinguished. People expect their king to be experienced, and you look it." She detangled one hand from her mug to disarrange his hair. "Age suits you."

Somehow, that was better than any sort of denial or reaffirmation of his youth could have been.

"Thank you," he said, though the words felt sorely insufficient.

"You're welcome."

She was closer than she had been, before. He couldn't remember which one of them had moved. He had one arm thrown across the back of the sofa and she was sitting on her knees beside him. How long had he been staring at her? Why hadn't he said anything else? Why hadn't  _she_ said anything else?

Any moment now she was going to break his gaze and the spell would be lost. If she did, it would never come back.

All at once he was aware that he didn't want the opportunity to pass him by untouched. In spite of that realization, he could think of no way to stop the inevitable. He was frozen. Not even all the wants in Eos could have forced him to move a muscle. Just as well, then, that she didn't seem to require that of him.

It was her moving closer, this time. He knew, because his own body had turned to rigid stone by then. She leaned up to him, just close enough that her breath fell hot on his lips. Then she paused—not so much hesitation as warning—with her gaze flicking between his eyes and his lips, and closed the last of the distance.

For a moment longer he was held immobile as doubts and hesitations chased around his brain. Then it all broke and the only thing he was aware of were her lips pressed soft against his, and how very much he wished to stay that way.

Four years since he had kissed a woman. He thought he had forgotten how.

Apparently not.

Time passed. He could say nothing more definitive than that because each second slipped by too quickly to grasp at. At some point, Crea had the good sense to break away and set both of their mugs on the coffee table before they spilled hot tea everywhere—but recognizing after the fact that it was a good idea didn't make him any less reluctant to let her go, even for that few seconds. She pulled away and he followed. She turned away to break the kiss and laughed when he made a sound of objection. When she returned—tea safely stowed away—she made up for the lost time by climbing into his lap and burying her fingers in his hair. She took his lips again. Regis lost track of time again.

It was the sharp details that he was cognizant of: the silken feel of her hair through his fingers when she pulled it loose from its bun; the smooth, soft expanse of her skin laid bare before him; the whispered words exchanged between kisses; the surprising firmness with which she pulled him to his feet and led him to the other room; and every instant that passed thereafter, with her lit only by the city lights and the soft glow of the Wall outside the window.

Once more he found that wholeness that he had denied himself for years. How had he ever lived without it?


	21. Peace

It was not the first time, recently, that he had woken up somewhere other than his own bed. It was, however, the first time in decades that he had woken up in someone else's bed.

Someone pounded on the outer hall door. A moment later, a chorus of little voices left no doubt as to who the culprits were.

"Crea, Crea, Creaaaa!"

Regis groaned and pulled Crea closer. "Do they do this every morning?"

"Most mornings." She yawned, pushing her hair back and smiling over her shoulder at him. "Sometimes they even wait before opening the door."

"They—?"

The hall door opened. Regis had just enough time to muse on the fact that not only was he not in his own bed, but he also wasn't wearing any clothes, before Reina and Noctis tumbled into the room.

"Crea!"

"Daddy!"

"Welcome to parenthood," Crea said wryly. "Privacy is not a luxury allowed to you, after they start walking."

They had been walking for years. Now they climbed up onto the bed and piled on top of Regis and Crea.

"Daddy, I'm a dragon," Reina said without preamble.

"There is no such thing, my dear," Regis said absently, as he set about detangling himself from the growing pile of people.

"Yeah huh!" Reina said.

He opened his mouth to inform her that no, in fact, there were no real dragons, but stopped himself.

"My mistake. You make a lovely dragon."

Crea laughed. She wiggled her way out from underneath the twins and the blankets alike and slipped out of bed. While Regis was self-consciously tugging the blankets over his chest, Crea set about picking up her discarded clothes from the night before to throw into the laundry and pulling clean ones from her wardrobe. He was momentarily distracted from his children. Not  _just_ because she wasn't wearing anything, but because she moved with an unconcerned confidence that suggested she  _was_. She glanced over her shoulder and caught him looking at her.

"What?" She blushed faintly.

Regis shook his head, at a loss for words. He still held the blanket to his chest as Reina and Noctis bounced on the bed beside him.

She laughed, guessing what was bothering him. "They're four! 'Naked' doesn't mean anything to them. At least nothing significant. They run around without their clothes on all the time."

Nevertheless,  _he_ attached meaning to it. Crea shook her head and picked up his clothes from the floor, setting them on the bed beside him.

"If you wait one minute I'll take them off your hands so you can actually get dressed," she said, and promptly disappeared into the bathroom.

"Daddy, are you better?" Reina dropped onto her knees beside him and clasped her hands in her lap. Noctis continued to bounce.

"Am I better…?" Regis propped himself up, holding the blankets in place with one hand.

"You were sick!" Noctis said.

'Sick' didn't quite capture the spirit of what had been happening in Insomnia for the past few weeks, but he supposed it was easier to explain to a child, that way.

"Ah," Regis said, "Yes indeed; I am feeling much better."

"Daddy, you're in Crea's bed!" Noctis said.

Regis' face flushed hot. Leave it to the four year old to make blunt comments with no notion of what they meant. He could think of nothing to say to that, so he changed the subject.

"I gather that Ignis has taught you to read."

"Mm. Mhmm." Noctis dropped onto his knees beside Reina. "I read better than Ignis."

"Is that so?"

"No," Reina said. "Ignis is the best at reading."

"I read better than Reina!"

"Nuh uh!"

"Uh huh!"

Reina tackled Noctis sideways into the bed. Regis briefly debated stopping them, but thought better of it. So long as they weren't  _actually_ causing each other much damage, what was the harm in a little tousle? When Crea returned a moment later, looking as if she had taken half an hour to get ready rather than two minutes, they were still at it.

"I leave you alone with them for one minute…" She put her hands on her hips, stopping in the doorway.

"I am a neutral party, completely uninvolved in this disagreement."

"I'm sure," she said dryly. "Well, go on, then. Might as well take advantage of their distraction."

Regis gathered up his clothes and scampered while he had the chance. Crea was kind enough not to laugh at his undignified flight. He wasn't accustomed to putting on an unlaundered suit in the morning—and a wrinkled one, at that—but he contented himself with the knowledge that it was temporary. He only needed to make it down the hall to his own room to change.

That was the difficult part. There was no such thing as true privacy in Regis' life. Secrets, for him, meant that only a few hundred people shared some knowledge, rather than a few hundred thousand. As soon as he stepped out of Crea's room and into the hall, unkempt and wearing a wrinkled suit, every Crownsguard on watch in the royal wing would be privy to the information of how he had spent last night. Indeed, probably the night watch was already full aware—he had gone into Crea room last night and never emerged. Conclusions would be drawn from that.

His only consolation was that all of his guards and attendants were notoriously discreet. That was one on a long list of requirements for anyone who worked so close to the crown. The only people they would share this particular secret with would be other Crownsguards. A small comfort.

Nevertheless, Regis put on his suit and emerged from the bathroom. It had taken him longer than it had taken Crea, and by the time he emerged she had them distracted and playing hide-and-seek. He stood a moment, watching as Reina and Noctis had a silent but furious battle over who got to hide underneath the bed. Noctis won. Reina crouched behind Crea's nightstand just at the last instant.

"... _ten!_ Now, where could they be?" Crea turned away from the corner, where she had been standing, and caught his gaze. She shot him a grin, ignored the giggling nightstand, and walked to the wardrobe instead. "Are they… in here?"

She threw open the wardrobe doors and made a show of rummaging around. Both the bed  _and_ the nightstand giggled.

"Not here!" Crea turned back around and stood, humming with indecision for a moment, before she lunged toward the nightstand and dragged Reina out. "Ah ha!"

Reina squealed in delight. "You got me!"

"I got you! Now, where is Noctis…?"

Reina pointed underneath the bed and Regis couldn't help but laugh. Crea dropped to her knees and peered underneath. "Betrayed by your own sister!"

"No fair! Reina cheated!"

"Siblings do that," Crea informed him gravely. "You'll just have to get her back. But first, it's time to get dressed. You can't go down to breakfast in your pajamas. Go on! Don't forget to comb your hair, Noct!"

She turned to Regis as the twins marched back out of the room and smiled, half-amused, half-sympathetic. "What on Eos would you do without Avun?"

Regis caught sight of himself in the mirror on the wall and grimaced. "Look rather like a vagrant all of the time, I suspect."

She took pity on him and dragged him back into the bathroom to run a comb through his hair until it lay flat. She tugged at his suit and straightened his tie until his attire hung a little more orderly on his frame—though she couldn't do much about the wrinkles.

"That's the best I can do, I'm afraid," she said.

"Thank you."

"Will you have breakfast with them, today?" Crea asked.

"I should like to—and you as well, if you will come."

"Of course I will!"

She smoothed her hands up his lapels and across his shoulders, then rose up on her toes to kiss him. He lowered his head and kissed her back. Her lips were just as soft and warm as they had been the night before. Soon, he would have to give serious thought to what this meant for either of them. For now, it only meant that his heart was fuller than it had been in a long time, and that the nagging guilt that had plagued him for even longer than he realized was finally fading.

"Come on," she said. "You'll have to face the world, eventually. I think being seen coming out of my room in the morning is unavoidable."

He couldn't deny that. So he went, trying not to let his thoughts linger on what his Crownsguards must have been thinking when he stepped out into the hall with Crea beside him. They split paths, Crea turning toward Noct and Reina's room and Regis toward his own. Avun was standing outside his door. He bowed low when Regis approached. If he thought anything at all about Regis' whereabouts the night before, he made no comment.

Nor, indeed, did anyone else. The morning passed without incident, and, for the first time in months, he was allowed the luxury of taking the morning meal with his children.

Days passed. For a time, there was peace—or as much peace as could be expected in a world where national relationships were strained, at best. Regis obstinately refused to give up on morning runs with Cor—though they had become nothing more than a jog around the gardens. No one said a word about his choice to do so and, at the very least, he told himself  _he_ was the one who set his own pace.

The snows returned, for a time, as predicted. Though he had little time to spend enjoying the weather or—more accurately—enjoying his children's enjoyment of the weather, he knew from Crea that they spent most afternoons out and playing in the snow with Ignis. When he did have the opportunity to spend a few hours with them, he experienced that wonderful wholeness that he had been denying himself for so long. To walk through the garden, arm-in-arm with Crea, watching as Reina and Noctis kicked up snow, was everything he wanted. No more barriers stood between them. No more pretenses. For a time, they simply existed together. Joyous and complete.

Nights he spent in Crea's company, more often than not. She waited up for him to return from council or whatever business occupied his evenings, and he arrived in her rooms to find a hot cup of tea waiting for him. He never did guess how she knew when to begin brewing it. It took a few weeks before he had cut through enough of the guilt to take her back to his own rooms, but only a few days after that before Reina and Noctis started coming to knock on  _his_ door in the mornings. Even that was a comfortable change.

And so the last of winter passed by, almost faster than Regis was willing to let it go. Those days were some of the best days of his life, following Aulea's death and he always looked back on them fondly.

But peace is ever destined not to last.

At the start of the spring, there came news from Galahd that was fated to break that brief interlude of contented bliss. The imperials had withdrawn the bulk of their forces back to Accordo. If they were to have any chance at rescuing any small part of Galahd from the Empire's clutches, this was the time to do it. At the same time, they still had little chance of holding Galahd against the empire, when and if Niflheim returned. The revolution in Accordo would not last forever. Could he really justify dedicating their army to holding one village, when the rest of Lucis could be threatened again at any moment?

"They need not have the entire army," Aldebrand said from the council gallery. "They only need enough troops to supplement their own and overthrow what remains of the imperial presence."

"And when the imperials return?" Felice asked. "What then?"

"You are merely speculating, Master Felice. We have no notion of how long Niflheim will be busy with Accordo, or if, when they return, they will maintain any interest in taking our shores."

"It is too optimistic to hope that they will lose interest in us merely because of an uprising in Accordo," Hamon said. "Niflheim has been at our borders for generations. It seems safe to assume they will return, once they have dealt with Accordo."

"You speak as if Accordo is doomed to fail," Felice said. "Is it not possible that they will throw off the imperial yoke?"

"Possible," Hamon agreed, "But unlikely. It is high time we recognized that. This Camelia Claustra has no interest in seeing her people killed in the name of independence. She has already made it clear that what she wants is a government under Accordo's hand. All Niflheim has to do is offer them that much freedom, and she will cease hostilities."

Across the gallery, councilors exchanged uneasy glances.

"Well, then we will need to leave enough troops supplementing Galahd's own to bolster their defenses in the event of another attack," Aldebrand said.

"Whatever troops Galahd had a few months ago are likely dead," Clarus said. "I can see no reason why the imperials would suffer an able-bodied militia to survive. No, Master Alebrand. There can be no reliance on Galahd's own troops for this. If we seek to liberate and protect the village, it will have to be done entirely with Lucis' own army."

And Lucis' army was stretched thin as it was.

"What is the alternative?" Felice asked. "Leave Galahd to Niflheim?"

Eyes turned toward Regis. Likely they already knew the answer, but wished to hear it spoken in some voice besides their own. It would not have been the first settlement to fall permanently to imperial control. It wouldn't be the last, either.

"We might make an evacuation effort," Clarus suggested. "As is stands, we could break through Niflheim's current forces in Galahd and free as many people as possible."

"And bring them where?" Aldebrand asked. "Insomnia has no space for refugees."

"Insomnia is the only safe space  _to_ bring them," Felice objected.

"There  _is_ available land, still, in the Outlands," Clarus said. "While it may not be as safe as Insomnia, it is certainly safer than Galahd."

"And if the imperials come farther inland and take  _those_ lands, as well?" Felice asked. "How many times will we ask these people to flee for their lives?"

"As many as necessary," Aldebrand snapped. "There is no assurance of safety for anyone, in war."

Terrible as it may have been to speak casually of uprooting so many lives, bringing the Galahdians onto the mainland would simplify matters. Had there been space within the Wall, he would have welcomed them all inside. As it was, Insomnia was already full to bursting and they could not afford to offer sanctuary to so many people—least of all when most of them had little to offer in return. A fisherman had no skill set to contribute to Insomnia's welfare; brutal as it seemed to bar a person access for their choice in livelihood, that was the way of things. If Regis had possessed the strength, he would have held the Wall over all of Lucis. But his father had already discovered the folly of that.

"Let the army be assembled," Regis said. "We will push back what remains of the imperial forces and evacuate as much of Galahd as possible before they return with reinforcements. Master Felice, space must be found for the refugees within the Outlands. Organize temporary housing and rations until more permanent relocation is possible. Master Aldebrand, see to it that the necessary funds are allocated."

Everything was carried out in rapid order. Or as rapidly as might be expected, when the bureaucracy was involved. Within a few weeks everything was arranged—from food and shelter for the refugees to the deployment of the army. Only one thing remained to be done. It was not something that Clarus was going to approve of.

"I will accompany the troops to Galahd, myself," Regis informed him, the evening before the army was due to depart, in the relative privacy of his study.

"That is unwise, Your Majesty."

"I am not a child, Clarus. Nor am I a decrepit old man, as of yet. These people are about to be told that I have made the decision to abandon their homes. How, pray tell, do you suppose that looks, to them?" Regis asked. "As if I had dismissed them entirely as having no note, perhaps? They have no notion of the hours spent in debate, nor of the costs weighed against benefits—and they have no care for those, either. What they see is their king turning his back on Galahd. I mean to impart the message that I have done no such thing. Outlanders they may be, but they are still Lucian. They are still my people. And Gods damn it, I will let no man forget that.'

Clarus met his gaze and held it for several long moments. Finally, he lowered his eyes.

"I owe you an apology, Regis…" he said. "You are right in saying I have acted unfairly toward you as of late. You  _are_ a stubborn man, and so I have foolishly made assumptions about the motivations behind some of your decisions. I have no excuse for myself. The only explanation I will offer is this: as much as you hate to be weakened by the Wall and the ring, know that I hate bearing witness just the same, and when I swear my Shield to protect you, it is not merely some sense of duty that drives me, but love. Wherever this road may lead you, I will be there, protecting you from whatever earthly foe you face. Even yourself."

There were so many words to say and none of them would have been sufficient. So all he said was: "Apology accepted."

Clarus clasped his shoulder and gave him a tight smile. "Then come. We should  _both_ be abed, if we are to leave with the dawn tomorrow."

Regis didn't bother asking him to stay behind. The King's Shield would go where the king went.


	22. Galahd

With the dawn came the energy of a new day. Once more, Regis was forced to leave his children to breakfast on their own as he made for the front of the Citadel with Clarus at his side. Crea had offered no opinion on his decision to go to Galahd with the army, though she worried for him. They had spent the night in each others arms and nothing more, with a tension of apprehension between them. Their farewells in the morning were brief, but with no words left unsaid.

"Stay safe," she told him, and she rose up on her toes to kiss him goodbye.

Clarus chose that moment to become intently interested in the woodwork surrounding the doors of the elevator. When they left together, a moment later, Clarus made no comment. It seemed he retained some wisdom, after all. Or perhaps he simply deemed this a poor time to have a conversation that had been brewing for years. Probably the latter.

Outside the Citadel, Cor had the Regalia running. It might not have been so different from the old days, driving off into danger and adventure together, except there had always been four or five of them, in those days. Now they were only three.

Outside the Citadel gates, crowds of people lines the streets and downtown Insomnia shot up all around them. It seemed the first time in years that Regis had left the Citadel. Surely it hadn't been so long, but now that he thought back, he couldn't remember the last time he had gone into the city. From the Citadel, it was so easy to reduce all of Insomnia to a model: faraway building blocks, toy-sized people, and the glint of cars on the roads. That was a dangerous view for a king to have. He had always meant to take more time to be amongst his people, but there never was more time. He didn't even have the time to spend with his own family, most days.

From the street, there was no choice but to be immersed in the city. Skyscrapers towered overhead, gleaming glass and metal in the dawn light and reflecting the prismatic glow of the Wall. The main street was wide enough for admit four cars side-by-side, and lined by raised walkways—all of which were packed with people who stood and watched the Regalia go by. Advertisements jutted out from buildings and signposts overhead: watches, wine, and the Museum of Lucian History were most prominent among them.

At length they joined the procession of military vehicles on their way out of the city, and the whole line of cars climbed onto the freeway to rise over the lower residential districts on the way directly out of the city. Some few buildings rose to the height of the overpass; from there they had a near complete view of the city—though it wasn't quite as stunning as the view from the Citadel. Then again, somehow it was more impressive to see the heart of the Wall's power from far away. The beam of violet light shot up from the center of the Citadel, splitting high overhead to form the protective barrier that sheltered Insomnia and fed off of Regis' strength. From too close, it was merely so much light, insensible. From faraway, it was a magnificent sight. Even knowing what it was, where it came from, and exactly what cost it demanded, Regis found himself surprised by the magnitude of the Wall. Of course it was heavy. It protected the entire city.

The southwestern gate opened to admit them without fuss, though it took some time for the whole of the military parade to make it through. Regis tapped his fingers on his armrest and watched the gateguards outside his window. Their eyes flicked over the Regalia with reverence; they knew he was inside, but the tinting of the windows made him impossible to see. He cracked his window just enough to share a glance with a stunned guard. Clarus shot Regis a look, but made to comment. When the moved on beyond the gates of the city, Regis rolled his window up and sat back in his seat.

"I cannot recall the last time I set foot outside Insomnia," Regis said.

"It has been some time," Clarus agreed. "Perhaps not since before you were crowned."

It had changed. Once, Cavaugh had held more than just Insomnia. Now the rest of the archipelago was deserted. The bridge that connected Insomnia to the mainland was about as long as he remembered, but the portion of Leide on the east side of the gate at Ostium Gorge hadn't always been so devoid of people. That had happened when the Wall went up around Insomnia. Now Insomnia may as well have been a separate nation from the mainland of Lucis.

They passed through Hammerhead. For a moment, in the faces that stood off the road watching the military drive by, Regis thought he saw a familiar one. Then it was gone. Everywhere they passed through, after, was more sparse than Regis recalled. Knowing, via numbers and figures, how poorly life went on outside the Wall did not do justice to witnessing it, himself. It was like stepping through time. It hadn't always been so bad out here. People hadn't always struggled so much. To say they were decades behind Insomnia was not an exaggeration.

They had to cross the whole continent to reach Galahd. Even in Cleigne, the roads that led so far west were dirt roads, rutted and disused with time. The only vehicles that had passed this way recently were the military ones they had sent before. It was just as well that the Regalia was more hardy than she looked.

The bridge to Galahd was still out of commission, but the boats were waiting for them. Regis was more surprised to find that his boat was among them. He hadn't seen it since the day they had returned from Accordo, after being called back prematurely by his father. Now they climbed aboard to learn that it had been well cared for in the long years since then. He even ventured to comment that it was in better shape than he was. Clarus only smiled and slapped his shoulder affectionately. Cor, as usual, looked as if he had forgotten to take his sense of humor out of his sock drawer and bring it with him.

The straight-line distance from the mainland to Galahd was less than a mile, but in boats they elected not to take the shortest route. Part of this was due to the fact that some places were simply too shallow to bring the larger boats through, and the remnants of the old bridge were still jutting up from the water, waiting to savage an unaware helmsman. The other reason they chose the roundabout route was because it afforded them some little cover from imperial eyes on the island.

Galahd was the biggest of a handful of small islands off the western coast. Some were little more than large boulders. By boarding the boats south of Galahd and weaving their way around the uninhabited islands, they gave themselves a better chance at reaching Galahd unnoticed. There would be a fight, either way. What they wished to avoid was getting stuck over the water with MTs and Gods knew what else firing at them from above.

At least this time, Regis' troops had something of a contingency plan against that.

"Not unless absolutely necessary," Clarus cautioned him. Regis could see the worry underneath stern look he gave, but doubted that anyone else would.

"I know full well, Clarus." Regis stood at the bow and looked kept his eyes fixed at the front of their line, waiting for any sign of attack from ahead.

"How much would it cost to create a barrier around the ships?" Cor asked.

"These things are not quantifiable in numbers," Regis said.

"More than it takes to maintain the Wall," Clarus said.

"More than it takes to maintain the Wall  _within the same period_ ," Regis corrected. "The creation of a barrier is more costly than the maintenance, but that, of course, depends on the size of the barrier."

"How small would the barrier have to be before maintaining the Wall cost the same as creating the new shield?" Cor asked.

Regis shook his head, casting about for a scale that felt intuitively right. "Larger than you think. I might cover one of the larger boats in its entirety. Perhaps two. It is impossible to pinpoint."

Clarus shifted, made restless and uncomfortable by the topic. He hated knowing that Regis could put himself at risk through magic and he had no way of protecting against that. The curse of a Shield. How many good men and women through the ages had carried with them such a burden of guilt, merely because they could never truly protect their king from himself? All of them had tried. In the end, all of them had failed. The leading cause of death among the Lucis Caelum line was neither comfortable old age, nor assassins' blades.

Conversation died when they reached the last stretch of open water between Galahd and its closest neighbor. From here out they had no shelter; nothing but luck would save them from being seen by imperial eyes on the lookout.

What had seemed an imposing line of cars on the road was now dwarfed to a little trail of boats, following one after another like ducklings. Ahead, Galahd dwarfed them. It was a small island by Lucian standards, less than half the size of anything in Cavaugh and heavily wooded. As they drew closer, they could make out wooden docks on the shore with fishing vessels tied up and bobbing gently with the waves. Above the shore, the landscape rose steeply into a sharp, craggy cliff face with a narrow trail winding up. The village itself was there—nestled in a shallow basin, which may once have been volcanic and had long since gone dormant. Not an indefensible position, by any standard, with the right men and supplies. Unfortunately, they had neither. They were hoping that Niflheim didn't, either.

The lead boat was halfway across to Galahd when a cry went up from the front. Figures were moving along the upper edge of Galahd's cliff. Magitek soldiers.

"So much for coming in unnoticed," Cor said.

The time for silence had passed. All along the line of Lucian boats, orders were being shouted. The unobtrusive formation broke; they fanned out to form a less convenient target for Magitek cannons. Unfortunately, that also had the effect of making the ships slightly less convenient to cover with a barrier.

"You should be below," Clarus said.

"If I go below deck, I can hardly see when it becomes necessary to lend my aid," Regis said.

Perhaps that was why Clarus wanted him below. Nevertheless, Clarus gave in without so much as a frustrated sound, though he  _did_ take up a defensive stance in front of Regis. Cor did much the same, following Clarus' lead. Between their shoulders, Regis watched the numbers on the ridge grow. First it was only the empty, humanoid soldiers. Then came the Magitek Armor—the towering, bipedal weapons that Niflheim used in defense and in siege. Regis already knew what the missiles from those monstrosities felt like against a barrier. He had too much first-hand experience with that.

And he was about to feel it again.

The first Armor let loose its rockets. Though Regis' boat held well behind the others, the curving path of the missiles left no doubt as to whom the target was. Niflheim knew he was present, already. That would have been unavoidable, after he cast his first spell, but he had been hoping they would have some little time of anonymity. Evidently not.

The rockets streaked closer, eerily silent. Regis threw out his hand and drew upon the innate magic in his blood to weave a shield around his boat. It had been a long time since he had used any magic, save the maintenance of the Wall. He didn't remember it burning so much. He winced at the sensation—like boiling tea swallowed too fast, only it poured through his veins instead of his throat—and pressed on. The magic still leapt to his command, uncomfortable as it may have been. In an instant, a solid, prismatic shell had formed around the front of his boat, and in another the missiles slammed into it, one after another with. With two ear-splitting blasts, they split his barrier; it wasn't shattered, but it was badly damaged. He let the shield fall, rather than wasting energy to repair the cracks. He would need a large shield than that, before long.

Indeed, nearly before his barrier had dissolved entirely, more rockets had taken flight. More Magitek Armors had joined those standing on the ridge. Regis threw both hands wide and cast his senses out. He could feel where the shield needed to be, if he focused; he could feel the line of ships ahead and to either side of him. He wove the shield around them, taking tiny threads of magic and twisting them into something much larger—a whole tapestry of light—as he worked his way across the line of boats. The magic responded as rapidly as he could form a thought and so every thought had to be lined right after the other with no errors and no gaps. A single weak spot would cost lives. He had thrown away enough Lucian lives for Niflheim, this year.

The whole process was completed in less than a minute. When he was through, the front half of a dome covered their advance. A miniature imitation of the Wall over Insomnia. A cheer went up along the line of boats. Cries of "Long live the king!" and "For King Regis!" drifted out over the water.

And then the rockets struck.

Regis bowed his head and gritted his teeth, refusing to let this weakness show through while he was standing on the deck of his boat with half the army watching him—praising him. Clarus gripped his arm, steadying him. The sensation was a faraway one, as if his arm was only distantly connected to his body. More immediate and present in his mind where the network of cracks that worked their way across his barrier. He swept along the shield, mind and magic, weaving tears before they became holes. A crack in the shield would hold for a time—at least until it was hit again—but a hole would compromise the entire barrier.

He drew magic through the ring, letting the power of the crystal pour into his barrier to protect his people, just as he had done when Insomnia was under siege. His only consolation was that this shield was considerably smaller than the Wall, and the missiles from the Magitek Armors were nowhere near as substantial as the blasts from that seige engine's cannons. He remained on his feet, albeit with Clarus' aid.

"Let's sit. There's no reason for you to remain standing through this," Clarus said.

Regis refused his aid to walk across the deck. Every eye in the army was on him through every second of their advance. If whispers spread that protecting a fleet of ships taxed the king so badly that he could not walk on his own, afterward, every ounce of confidence they placed in him would drain away. They needed to believe that he upheld this barrier and shrugged of Niflheim's attack effortlessly. They needed to believe that he would keep them safe.

He would. Whatever the cost.

His boat was designed more with comfort than combat in mind. On the deck was a small lounge area, once built for the enjoyment of a young prince and his entourage. Regis took his seat, here, and Clarus sat beside him. After a moment, Cor joined them, though he sat stiffly as if even the most comfortable lounge in Eos could not ease his rigidity. Regis settled himself as securely and comfortable as he could, and shut his eyes to brace for the next impact in what he hoped looked more like a position of serene focus, rather than apprehensive anticipation.

The fleet advanced. Regis kept the barrier up around them and with each missile that struck its mark, he repaired the damages with magic drawn from the crystal, expending his own strength to do so. So deeply focused on maintaining the barrier was he, that he hardly even realized when they reached the island at all, until Clarus grasped his shoulder.

"They will need a way to pass through, Regis."

He opened his eyes. The island, which had, when last he looked, been far enough away that the Magitek Armors were only an inch tall, was now within stepping distance. Above, the imperials awaited them; the barrage of missiles continued at a regular interval and the Magitek soldiers stood at attention, weapons drawn. Regis reached for his magic to rearrange the barrier. Once made, it was difficult to change the size and shape of. Difficult, but not impossible. He stretched the shield so that the half-dome instead provided some shelter from above. Then he scaled back the front, to allow his own soldiers to pass underneath. Once they were in the open, there was little he could do for them.

"It's better if you remain here," Clarus said, and for once Regis was forced to agree with him. From here, at least, he could continue to protect the boats—they would have a difficult time of returning to the mainland if Niflheim destroyed their transportation. As much as he wanted to charge with his soldiers and once more feel the clash of his blade against imperial steel, he could do more good where he was, now. The Armiger ached to be set loose on Niflheim's empty men, but it would have to wait.

But he could do  _something_ for his people.

"Tell them to hold," Regis ordered.

Cor passed the order along, and the Lucian army waited at the edge of Regis' shield without advancing. Clarus looked at him curiously, but Regis offered no answer. None verbal, in any case. He shut his eyes and focused once more. On the edge of his awareness, he could just sense the location of the Niflheim line at the top of the ridge. Counter-intuitive though it may have seemed, if he shielded  _them_ …

Tendrils of magic crept across the air in front of the line of imperial soldiers. After only an instant of delay, they open-fired on the forming barrier so that Regis was forced to mend cracks at the same time as he extended the barrier. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let the shield fall before it was even in place. If he could secure it, his people would be safe in their advance. Progress was slower than he would have liked. He fed energy to the existing shield to mend the gaps—a constant flow of magic spreading over the growing surface to fill cracks and growing holes—and, at the same time, wove new threads of magic to extend the barrier. It grew across the ridge. Slowly. Too slowly. More than once he thought he couldn't possibly hold up against the constant onslaught from the imperial forces. But he refused to let go.

He reached the end of the line. Above, the steady thrum of gunfire assaulted his shield at every inch, blades hummed through the air and clanged off the solid magic.

"Sound the advance," Clarus said. Perhaps he had taken in Regis paling face and white-knuckled grip on the edge of the sofa and knew they didn't have much time. Perhaps he knew there was no way Regis was forcing even a single word out, right now. Either way, the order was given and his Lucian soldiers vaulted from the boats and charged up the narrow path, sheltered from the rain of bullets by Regis' magic alone. For now.

He only had to hold the shield until they reached it. Even so, the imperials held the pinch point at the top of the ridge and it would be difficult to force their way past that. Unless he forced the imperials back. The barrier at the top of the ridge wasn't afixed to anything. In theory, that meant he could move it as he liked. In practice, that it wasn't so simple. He tried anyway.

He pushed the barrier back, inch by inch, until it, in turn, pushed the imperials back. The morning was cold, but sweat formed dew on his face. He forgot about the world. He forgot about maintaining a reputation. He forgot that he was sitting in the open air on the deck of his boat. All that mattered was moving the barrier another inch. And another inch.

"Regis." Hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him and jarring him out of the trance. He opened his eyes to Clarus in front of him, looking as sharp as he had when Regis had nearly drank himself to oblivion over Aulea's death. "That's enough."

He blinked up at the top of the ridge. The imperials had given some ground to his barrier—not as much as he would have liked, but at least it was progress. It would be a squeeze for the soldiers to fit up there with them. Even as he watched, his soldiers reached the upper lip and fanned out along the crest, mere feet away from the Magitek soldiers with only a thin barrier dividing the two lines.

Regis had put too much strength into moving the wall back and held not enough in reserve for maintaining it. The next volley of missiles from the Magitek Armors sent a network of cracks creeping through the barrier, spreading too rapidly for Regis to patch them. He fumbled repairs for a moment, intent on holding the shield until everyone was in place. Clarus shook his shoulders again.

"Let it go."

Regis met his gaze. He felt the cracks expand and merge and widen as if the damage was to him, not an external entity. Someday the same thing would happen to the Wall and he would be powerless to stop it.

And then it shattered.

It was almost a relief. After spending those minutes—had it only been minutes—with his magic tied up protecting his soldiers, to have the bonds cut was like taking the first deep breath after a too-long plunge in icy waters. The barrier over the boats remained. This one, at least, the imperials were not attacking. Not anymore, in any case; they were too busy with the Lucian troops right in front of them.

Even if Regis had been of a mind to, he couldn't have joined the fray. He could hardly have stood, at that moment. It was only fortunate that everyone he wished to keep this weakness a secret from was otherwise occupied. Clarus and Cor already knew. Even if they hadn't, he never had been any good at keeping secrets from them.

Clarus disappeared from his side to go below deck. He looked no more happy about Regis' expenditures than he had in the first place. Cor stood nearby, arms crossed, expression dour, but he usually looked that way. If he took issue with Regis' choices, he made no comment. Usually he was outspoken enough to tell Regis if he had overstepped. That was what had drawn Regis to him in the first place.

A few minutes later, Clarus returned with a glass of water and a tin of seasoned nuts. He shove both under Regis' nose and stepped away without a word. In spite of Regis' skepticism regarding food that had been on this boat for an indefinite amount of time, he opened the tin and dutifully picked at them.

"These are stale, you know," he said.

Clarus glared at him over his shoulder. "My apologies that leftover food does not meet His Majesty's exacting standards. Perhaps if you would not overextend yourself while we are miles away from the nearest safe haven, you would not have this problem."

There was no reasoning with him while he was worried. Regis stopped trying. They waited out the assault on Galahd in relative silence, after that. Regis finishe the nuts, hoping in vain that it might lighten Clarus' mood. It didn't. At the very least, he did feel a little better for having some food in his stomach. In hindsight, he ought not have skipped breakfast.

The tension in the waiting wasn't all from Clarus' sudden black mood. Above, their soldiers had driven back the imperials out of eyesight. They could hear shouting, but other than that they had no indication of how the battle was going—and whether or not Regis' magic had been able to give them the advantage they needed to win Galahd back. They did have access to the radio chatter through the boat, and occasionally they would hear Drautos' voice giving orders on formation and movement. It didn't  _sound_ as if the battle was weighed against them, but it was difficult to make such a judgement based on so little information. So they waited. And Regis recovered his strength. Clarus wanted him to drop the barrier around the boats, as well, but he wouldn't. Not yet. If they were forced to make a retreat, they would need somewhere safe to retreat  _to_. It would be more costly to build a new sanctuary than to maintain the old one.

More promising reports began to sound over the radio. From strategy that made little to no sense without the context of seeing the battle came orders that gave a clear indication of the imperial line breaking. Not much longer after that, Drautos addressed Clarus directly.

" _Commander? The imperial forces are in full retreat and we have cleared the way from the boats. We're picking up the stragglers, now, sir."_

Clarus picked up the radio receiver. "Excellent work, General. His Majesty will be ashore shortly."

Clarus shot Regis a significant look and Regis let the barrier above the boats dissolve. He breathed a sigh of relief. The strain of covering a full fleet of vessels was more trying than he had first expected. Once he could have maintained that shield and done heavy damage on the front line. Those days were long gone, by now.

Regis rose unsteadily to his feet. It was Cor who offered a hand, but Regis waved him away. Clarus maintained distance. Pouting, still. As if he hoped that would teach Regis a lesson. Dear Clarus. Didn't he understand this was what Regis had been born for? A king was a sacrifice for his people. Nothing more.

It would have been nice to claim that he had marched up the narrow path toward Galahd, all glory and dignity, to bestow hope and freedom upon his people. None of those things happened. He refused to lean on Clarus' shoulder, as doubtless someone was watching by now, and instead took the path one step at a time, focusing on where he put his feet so he would not stumble. They went more slowly that he would have liked, but that was preferable to arriving at the top out of breath and hardly able to take another step. His dignity would have to take precedence over his speed.

The sluggishness of his ascent had one benefit, at least. By the time they crested the ridge, their soldiers had finished off the last of the imperial ones. Magitek Armors were disabled in smoking heaps of scrap metal, Magitek soldiers had been executed, and whatever few humans remained in Galahd had been taken into custody.

Galahd was in a sorry state. It had been decades since the last time Regis had stood in the little fishing village. Back then it had been thriving; in spite of the small population, the streets had been well-populated by villagers going about their business: hauling the morning catch, cleaning fish, repairing leaking roofs, and just generally  _living_. Now it was dead in all but name. People stood, hollow-cheeked and red-eyed in doorways of decrepit buildings. Most of them were bandaged or bruised—some were being seen to by the military doctors. The fish were gone. Their livelihood was gone. Niflheim had begun that, but Regis was here to finish it off. Galahd. If only he could have done better for them.

He found a boulder off the main road—if it could be called a road without being paved—that was flat enough to mount. Clarus stood beside him. To either side and behind them, Cor and Drautos took up their own positions. At Regis' appearance in the village, people began to assemble. Murmurs ran through the growing crowd. Regis steeled himself against the hope in their eyes and prepared himself for the words he knew he must say. He would have preferred cutting out his own tongue. A king pushes ever onward. This was the choice he had made. Now he must live with it.

"People of Galahd." Regis gathered up his voice and cast it out with more strength than he felt at the moment. "The empire has withdrawn the bulk of their forces from our shores thanks to the revolution in Accordo, but the situation will not last. Lucis cannot leave enough soldiers here to protect against future attacks." Expressions in the crowd transformed from hopeful to resentful within the span of that sentence. Drautos, himself, had spoken out at length against this course of action. In the end, it did not matter how many people opposed it. This was the best way he could think to protect his people.

"Instead, we offer the safety of the mainland. Safe passage will be provided for all those who wish to take up residence elsewhere. In Lestallum, food and shelter await you. It pains me that I can no longer guarantee the safety of your homes; in lieu of this, the crown will provide for you a chance to build new homes in a more secure location." This, too, went over about as well as he had expected. People were loath to leave their homes—Galahd, to them, was more than bricks and mortar. It could not be replaced by promise of food and shelter. He had only one, battered olive branch to offer them as consolation.

"This is not a surrender. Niflheim may grasp at our borders, but the might of a person fighting for their home is ten times that of an invading soldier. We  _will_ hold against the empire. We  _will_ fight. And we  _will_ prevail. But we cannot do this without you. Join us in this fight and I grant to you full provisions within the Wall, inside the Crown City of Insomnia. Join us in this fight and I swear that those who remain in Galahd will have regular supplies and patrols sent to their doorstep, within my power."

A murmur went through the crowd. Many in Galahd were too old or two young to bear a blade against Niflheim. But in the eyes of those who were of age, a fire kindled.

"Lucis needs your strength, young warriors."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I'm going to be out of town next week on Wednesday and away from my computer, so chapter 23 will post a couple days late. Probably no later than Friday.


	23. Endings

As ever, the coming of spring brought change to Lucis—not always for the better. By the time they returned to Insomnia, warm weather had turned aside the last vestiges of winter and summer was in the air. One month closer to the twins' fifth birthday. Regis tried not to think what would happen when August came.

A portion of Galahd had been relocated to Lestallum, at least temporarily. Some of the younger generation had come to Insomnia on Regis' promise of aid for their homeland, and room and board for themselves in return for their services to the crowd. The rest remained in Galahd, as he had known they would. Their lives would not be easy, from here on. Niflheim would return and all Regis could spare were the supplies and patrols he had promised—not a full defense against the empire.

At least for a time they had a reprieve. March and April brought with them warm breezes and little flowers blooming throughout the Citadel gardens. In years past, it had been his favorite season. Now he found himself dreading every day that passed. The Starscourge was still present among his people—not rampant, but pervasive enough to form a black stormcloud on the horizon. He awaited, still, Sylva's response to his latest letter, but he feared what she would tell him. Dark times were ahead. Dark times called for a King of Light.

He took as much time as he was able to spend with Crea and his children. They walked through the gardens, arm-in-arm, and felt like a family in more than just name. She was the mother his children would never have; Aulea would have wanted that. She would have wanted them to find some way to make themselves whole, even after she was gone. Crea did that for them. When they were together, he could almost forget his worries for the future. They would make it through, somehow. Together.

But all good things come to an end.

He should have known the council would never let it stand.

"Your Majesty, it has come to the attention of this council that you have been…" Hamon paused, searching for an appropriately diplomatic word, "Stepping out with a young woman."

That was certainly more polite than other possible descriptions. It was also less correct. The only place they went together was the gardens, and he had been walking through the gardens with her long before the more recent shift in their relationship. Nevertheless, he accepted Hamon's use of tact.

"It was not so long ago that this council was of the opinion that I should remarry," Regis said.

"Do you intend to marry her?" Hamon asked.

"I believe that conversation is rather premature, yet."

"While it may well be for the common folk, you do not have the luxury of the same type of courtship that John Smith carries out," Hamon said. "Thus far, no word has reached outside the walls of the Citadel, but I have no doubt that it will, if you continue along this path. Talk begets rumor begets speculation. And you cannot afford that sort of attention in the city."

Regis pursed his lips. "And what does the council advise?"

"Marry the girl or let her go." Diplomatic he may have been, but Hamon was still the most blunt person at the table. "If you choose to publicly and officially declare you affection for her, that is fine and well, but we would recommend you desist any activities that might encourage talk until after you are wed. If, on the other hand, one or both of you are unable to commit to a more orthodox approach, it would be better for all involved—and all reputations involved—if you were to terminate her employment immediately."

Marry Crea.

Admittedly, the idea was not an unappealing one. His children would grow up with a mother who loved them more than anything else in the world—she would care for them and raise them and be the gentle hand and soft-spoken words when Regis couldn't be. And he would have, once more, that companionship that had left a gaping hole in his chest since Aulea's death. For the first time in over four years, he was ready to remarry.

But there was more to marrying the king than raising his children and going for long walks in the gardens. If they wed, she would be queen consort. She would be thrust into the public eye, scrutinized, judged, and evaluated for every choice and action. She would wield political power that she, as of right now, knew nothing about. By her own words she detested politics and wanted nothing to do with ruling a nation, and yet she would have those responsibilities if he asked her to marry him. She would have to be the face of the Lucis Caelum family, whether she wished it or not. She would have to stand in front of a crowd and a myriad cameras with not a hair out of place, and say precisely the right thing at precisely the right time. It had been bad enough for her attending Regis' birthday party. Could he truly throw her into the spotlight for this?

Could he really fire her, instead?

Once more he stood upon the precipice. Behind him, his family played in the snow and Crea laughed while wiping mud from Noctis' cheek. And Spero Perdita beckoned and whispered:  _What do_ you  _want?_

Before him lay Lucis. Four hundred thousand people staring up at him, huddling beneath the Wall and hiding behind his army. The statues of his ancestors towered around, watching, waiting, expecting. His father stood beside the crystal, grim-faced and austere:  _Do your duty, my son._

Regis shut his eyes. "I will need some time."

"Of course," Hamon said. "But have a care, Your Majesty; if talk begins in the city, your choices diminish. The reputation of a young woman rumored to have been involved with her employer and then fired…"

He didn't finish the statement, but the implication was clear enough.

Regis spent a late night in his study, that night, dreading his return to his rooms. He couldn't even decide if he wanted to broach the subject with her or make the decision himself. Would she sacrifice her own life to the throne, just for his sake? Could he live with himself, if he let her do that? Perhaps it was best if he made the decision himself… but he was so accustomed to confiding in her that even the possibility of holding this back felt like poison in his veins.

He drank more than he ought to have. He found no answers at the bottom of the decanter of scotch, but by the time he reached it, Avun informed him matter-of-factly that it was not going to be refilled, tonight. It was probably for the best.

"You are a wiser man that I, Avun," Regis managed as Avunvulus hauled him to his feet and helped him to the door.

"Quite so, Sir."

So he had some bite underneath that professional exterior after all. It wasn't quite the same as having Wes there to chide him, but it would do.

It would do.

He returned to the upper levels with Avun's help. Crea was sitting in the lounge, but at the sight of Regis stumbling in on Avun's army, she rose to her feet, wide-eyed.

"Regis!" Her eyes flicked over him and the worry faded to disapproval. "You're drunk."

"Only a little bit," Regis said.

It wasn't that he was unsteady on his feet. It was simply that the room was not quite as stable as it usually was. The wind sometimes made the Citadel towers sway ever so slightly—quite disconcerting—but this felt more like being in a ship caught in a storm.

Crea took his other arm and, between her and Avun, managed to convince the room to stop spinning so much. She tugged at him until he moved his feet, putting one in front of the other—though 'in front of' was a little more uncertain than usual, tonight. He focused on taking steps and not looking farther than his feet until Crea stopped walking and he walked into her. She gave him a reprimanding look and opened the door to his bedroom for him.

"Thank you, Avun," she said as she lead the way in. "Just drop him on the bed; I'll deal with him."

"Of course, my lady." Avun helped him to sit on the edge of the bed—a little more gently than Crea's words suggested—bowed to them both, and saw himself out.

Crea sighed, crossing her arms and looking down at him. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Crea." She was close enough that he could reach out and wrap his arms around her waist. He pulled her to him, pressing his head to her stomach and looking up at her. She resisted just enough to let him know she wasn't pleased with him. "What would you say if I asked you to marry me?"

Her eyes widened. " _Marry_  you?" Then the shock faded to annoyance. "You're  _drunk_ , Regis."

"No—I mean, yes, I know, but this is important." He rested his forehead against her stomach and held her a little tighter, hoping her stability would make the room stop moving. "The council is right. We cannot carry on as we have been. I could marry you, but you would not enjoy it. You would have to become the queen, and I cannot fathom why anyone would enter into the monarchy voluntarily. If not… we will have to desist…"

She was silent for long enough that he forgot whether or not he had even said the words out loud, or if that had all happened only in his head. Her hands smoothed back his mussed hair, cold against his too-hot brow.

"You were drinking because the council said you had to marry me or leave me…?" Her voice echoed oddly in his head when he pressed his ear against her stomach.

He pulled back enough to look up at her. The annoyance was gone and some of the surprise was back along with something else. Something he couldn't quite describe or place, save that it wasn't good.

"Yes," he said.

"Oh."

"I did not intend to tell you… but I could not hold it in—"

She covered his lips with her finger. "Let's talk about this when you're sober."

"I am sober."

She gave him a long-suffering look and chose not to dignify that claim with a response. She removed his crown and set about unbuttoning his coat and stripping his layers off of him. Regis complied meekly with her urging, though he was more hindrance than help at getting undressed. Eventually he managed—or she managed, in spite of his aid—and fell into bed where the world spun a little less. He felt rather like he was floating above his body and not quite attached to it. Even so, as Crea crawled in beside him he wrapped his arms around her and held her as tight as his arms would allow.

And somewhere between drunken wakefulness and true sleep, he thought he heard a muffled sob against his shoulder. He smoothed her hair back clumsily with a hand he was only partially aware of, and tried to offer her some words of comfort.

All that came out was, "...all right."

But it wouldn't be. Not anymore.

It was no great surprise to anyone when Regis woke the following morning with a dry mouth and a pounding head. He pulled away from Crea and stumbled into the bathroom to wet his tongue, then stood staring at his haggard face in the mirror for a few moments. He was getting old. She could do better. She  _should_ do better. She should have had someone who wouldn't ask her to give up everything that she was for the sake of this kingdom. That was exactly what she would have to do, if she chose to marry him. One might be able to maintain some sense of personhood behind closed doors, but there were so few closed doors in the Citadel. Most often, one simply had to be king. Or queen, as the case was.

Regis had been born into it. His children had been born into it. They would understand, simply by virtue of existing, that they had to be a certain type of person. They had to walk a certain way, talk a certain way, act a certain way, dress a certain way. They would never experience life without that and so they would never miss not having it. But Crea… Crea was herself, first. Could a person so adamantly free of political life successfully immerse herself in it? Could she ever be happy as queen?

Aulea had been. Then again, Aulea had been accustomed to locked doors and closed windows her entire life. Her sickness had robbed her of freedom long before Regis offered her a gilded cage. If it hadn't, he would never have been able to ask in the first place. She had been such a free spirit. If her health hadn't been so crippled, the throne would have stunted that.

But Crea didn't have those restrictions. She could still walk away.

She should still walk away.

He splashed water on his face and smoothed his hair back, to some little good. He dressed on his own, not wishing to wake Crea, nor let Avun in while she was still abed. He looked awful, even with his suit on. How did Avun and Wes ever manage to make him look presentable, of a morning? Crea looked wonderful, stretched out in his bed with her shirt hanging off one shoulder and her golden hair covering his pillows. He lost track of time. The sun breached the horizon. Reina and Noctis came to tap on the outer door, and call for him and Crea.

It was going to break their little hearts as much as it broke his.

Regis ran his hands over his face. Crea stirred, reached for his empty side of the bed and finding him absent.

"Regis?" Somehow, she managed to look just as lovely with messy hair as she did fully groomed.

"Here."

She pushed her hair out of her face and rolled over to look at him. "Will you let them in?"

"I cannot bear to tell them."

"Tell them what?" She blinked at him, rubbing sleep from her eyes. In spite of his lack of response, she seemed to fill in the blank for herself. She sat up abruptly, fully awake. "You're going to send me away, aren't you?"

He shut his eyes and prayed for strength. All he felt was the tug of his father's spirit, a hand on his shoulder that wasn't really there.

_:Do your duty, my son.:_

For Lucis.

"I must," he said.

"I don't want to go."

He forced himself to look at her again. "Nor do you wish to be queen."

Her silence said what words could not.

No. She did not want to be queen. She could not be queen. All she had ever wanted was to care for his children. If he had been strong enough to keep his distance, she could still do that. Now it was too late. Hamon was right. If she did not go, there would be talk. And if there was talk, it would cripple her reputation forever.

Tears welled in her eyes. He hadn't seen her cry since the day he had lashed out at her—angry and confused, in love and jealous. Every time she had cried, it had been his fault.

"There must be some way," she said.

"I wish it was so. Alas, we both know it cannot be. Had we met in another life, where I was merely a man and my children merely children, I should give all of myself to you in a heartbeat. But my life is not mine to steer. I must choose what is best for the kingdom and I cannot separate my life from my duty. Would that I could."

Once, he had known a man who had given his life to teach Regis that he needed to live for himself and no one else. But Spero had had the privilege of being a man, not a king. If he could have seen Regis now, how disappointed would he have been?

"I could just be their nanny—we could stop all this!" Tears spilled down her cheeks. The flow only thickened when he shook his head.

"Could we?" His heart ached enough to send her away. But to have her within arms reach and not be permitted to touch… "Could  _you_? I am not a strong enough man for that. If you were to stay… it would only be more difficult."

She stared up at him, trembling all over, then tucked her legs up to her chest and buried her face against her knees. It broke his heart, to see her thus.

He crossed to the bed and sat down beside her, wrapping her up in his arms and pulling her to his chest. "Ah, Crea, Crea… never have I despised my fate so much as I do, now. These last years—you have made us whole as nothing else has. I fear what will become of us in your absence but  _you_ , I know, will thrive with or without me in your life. You have survived more hardship than I can ever truly understand, and each time you have climbed back to new heights."

He held her there for an indeterminate time, silently brushing hair from her face and tears from her cheeks. His suit was going to be wrinkled. He didn't care. The taps at his door grew less insistent and more uncertain.

She stopped crying and lay against his chest without another word.

Then Avun knocked. "Your Majesty?"

Crea sat up abruptly, as if she had forgotten where they were. He smoothed his thumbs over her cheeks to dry the last of her tears and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. Then he went to answer his door.

Avun stood outside with Noctis and Reina peering around his legs. At the sight of Regis fully dressed—albeit a little unkempt—answering the door, his eyes widened.

"Ah, Sire—I apologize for interrupting your morning, but I grew concerned when you did not let the young prince and princess in."

Noctis and Reina looked more upset than concerned. They were going to be more upset, soon. How was he meant to explain to them that the only mother they had ever known was going away? If they did not have enough reasons at four to hate the monarchy and their heritage, this would tip the scales.

"Daddy…" Reina stepped out from behind Avun's legs and held her hands out to Regis; her eyes were red-rimmed and her bottom lip stuck out.

"Reina, my dear." He reached down and scooped her up. When Noctis came forward, Regis took him, as well. "I am so sorry, my dearest ones. I was speaking with Crea. Thank you, Avun—I will call for you when I require you."

"Very good, Your Majesty." He bowed and pulled the door shut after Regis had withdrawn with his twins in his arms.

Crea was sitting much where he had left her, arms still wrapped around her legs. When she caught sight of him and the children, however, her eyes shone bright with tears once more. She held out her hands and Regis deposited both children into her lap. He sat beside them and wrapped all three up in his arms. Noctis squirmed, but didn't try to pull free. Young though they may have been, both twins had proved themselves adept at picking up on the solemn emotions of the adults around them. This was one of those times when they submitted themselves to prolonged affection. For a time. Eventually, Noctis grew too restless to sit any longer and wiggled himself free. Reina sat for a while longer before following him.

"When?" Crea asked.

Regis shook his head. His heart said never, but logic told him sooner was better than later. "A week?"

She nodded and tucked her knees back underneath her chin.

"I shall see to it that you find new lodgings," Regis said. "Wherever you like."

She nodded.

"Anything else you need will be provided at well. You have only to ask."

"Regis—you can't just pay for my life…"

"I can and I shall," he said. "You, yourself taught me what it means to live in this city. I cannot solve the woes of the entire city. But I might solve yours."

"Regis—"

"I love you, Crea. I only wish I could give you more for it."

"Don't," she said. "I can't bear to hear that."

"I am sorry." He stood and turned to the door. Avun would have his work cut out for him, this morning.

The week that followed defied comparison. Regis delivered his decision to the council, to the general approval of all. Though some were disappointed that Lucis would not have a new queen on the throne, no one voiced objection to his choice. Perhaps they sensed the weight it put on him. Or perhaps they simply did not wish to have a low-born servant elevated so high by a royal marriage. Either way, the topic passed in council with little note. Only Clarus pulled him aside afterward, wordless and mouth tight, and hugged him fiercely.

"I'm sorry it worked out this way," he said.

"As am I," said Regis.

For that first night, he and Crea danced around each other, both wanting to spend that last stretch of time together and both knowing it would only make the parting more painful if they did. In the end, she came to his door in the dead of night, anyway—long after they had resolved to try to break away.

"Just for this week," she said as she stepped out of her sleepwear and into his bed, "Let's not think about what comes after. Let's just make this time the best it can be."

So they did. Or they tried, at any rate. And they clung to each other as young lovers in the midst of life's tumultuous storm. For a few more days.

Crea chose a house at Regis' urging. From his treasury it was bought and paid for and furnished precisely to her specifications. He wished he could see it. It would be better if he never did.

Inside the Citadel, other changes were made. Crea, herself, rearranged the ranks of young women and men who worked on her staff, choosing a successor to herself.

"Jenet will do very well by them. She's smart and capable, and they'll listen to her," Crea told him.

Jenet was a young woman that Regis had met in passing several times and shared not more than a few words with. She was reserved—at least in his presence—and deferential. She had a habit of lowering her eyes and speak to his boots when she addressed him. It went without saying that whatever else Jenet may have been, she was not Crea. Perhaps she would warm to him, over time—she was, after all, to take Crea's suite of rooms next door to Noctis and Reina—but she would never be the friend to him that Crea had been.

Perhaps that was for the best.

Eventually, Noctis and Reina had to be told. Explaining to two four-year-olds that Crea was leaving and never returning was just as difficult as Regis had expected.

"But why?" Noctis asked.

In so few syllables he asked what Regis could never explain. Why? Because Regis had given in to his own selfish desires and lonely impulses, and in so doing, robbed his children of the only mother they had ever known. All he had ever wanted was a whole family. It wasn't meant to be.

"Because sometimes, we must do things we do not wish to do," Regis said. "For the good of Lucis."

Even as they sat there on Noctis' bed, wide-eyed and cross-legged in their chocobo pajamas, even as he answered every 'why' question that he could think of an explanation for, they still did not understand. Not until they all stood together for the last time, one week later, and bid farewell.

Every word that could have been spoken had already been, the night before, when they had lain in Regis' bed, sleepless. He stood, mute and stoic, as she produced little presents for his children: a stuffed chocobo for Reina and a stuffed cactuar for Noctis.

"You'll be good for Jenet, won't you?" Crea knelt on the floor before them, her eyes overbright with tears not yet shed.

Reina hugged her chubby little chocobo and nodded, dry-faced, but not dry-eyed. Noctis looked at his cactuar, then to Crea. He dropped the cactuar and flung his arms around her.

"I don't want you to go, Crea!"

Those tears that she hadn't let fall, before, came loose all at once. She hugged him fiercely. "I know, sweetheart. But sometimes we must do things we don't want to do."

"For Lucis?" Noctis asked.

"For Lucis," Crea agreed.

She wiped the tears from his little cheeks, gave him and Reina a kiss, and stood to look at Regis.

"I suppose this is it," she said.

Regis didn't say a word, because if he had, he would have lost his own tremulous control.

"I'd tell you to take care of them, but I'm not worried about that," she gave him a shaky smile. Even with tears running down her cheeks, she smiled. "I want you to take care of yourself, though. Don't talk back to Clarus when he tells you to go to bed."

He almost smiled, but even that was too much. If he felt anything, he would feel everything.

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. One last time. That, at least, he allowed himself. One last instant to hold her. One last breath of her scent. One last brush of their lips.

"Goodbye, Regis."

He couldn't say the words. He couldn't find a single one to say that wasn't stupid or insufficient, so he said none at all. She understood. And she gave him one last look—tight-lipped and heart-broken—before she turned away and left forever.

And when the doors closed behind them, Regis stood in silence with his teary-eyed children and no comfort to offer them. And Noctis said in so few words what Regis couldn't express, even to himself:

"I hate Lucis."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, it's on time.


	24. Oracle

> _King Regis,_
> 
> _As the Starscourge runs among your people, so too does the darkness stretch across Lucis. While we may not have the strength to banish it from your kingdom, together, we may at least ensure safety for your people even as night encroaches. Look for my coming on the shortest night of the year._
> 
> _My highest regards,_
> 
> _Sylva Nox Fleuret_

The announcement of the Oracle's coming sent waves through the Crown City and beyond. Those in the Outlands who had contracted the mysterious illness and grown steadily worse over the months rejoiced in the new hope of divine healing. Those who travelled at night spoke eagerly of brighter lights and safer roads. For those within Insomnia, her visit was more a mere novelty than it was of any great significance. And to Regis, though he ought have been more focused on the well-being of his people, it was the return of an old friend when he needed one the most.

In the months that had passed since Crea's departure, his home felt emptier than ever. Hard as he tried to spend more time with his children, who were struggling with the loss as much as he was, it was difficult to watch them at play and not think of her. It was difficult to do anything and not think of her. He couldn't walk past Jenet's room without expecting Crea to appear in the doorway and invite him inside for tea. He couldn't retire to his bed at night without noting how much more cold and empty it was, now. He couldn't sit at the breakfast table in the morning without missing her presence there. It didn't help when Reina or Noctis crawled into his lap and told him they missed her. It didn't help, watching Reina hold her little chocobo plush and stare at the closed door to Crea's rooms—now Jenet's rooms.

Clarus did what he could. He made sure that Regis didn't sleep in his study or drink overmuch while brooding at night. He dragged Regis away from his work and sent him to be with his children more often, during those months. Though it hurt, Regis welcomed the opportunity. It was a bittersweet ache, watching them. And he had not forgotten what was coming in August.

Now he stood beside his throne and waited for the one woman who might be able to shed some light on this darkness.

"Her Royal Majesty, Queen Sylva Nox Fleuret of Tenebrae. Oracle of Eos."

She was announced just as the doors swung open to admit her. It had been decades since last they had crossed paths. She still looked the same as ever: white-blonde hair, of a color so rarely found in Lucis, perfectly braided and arranged in a crown around her head; stoic face, lit by an inner warm of compassion. She wore a gown of pale blues and golds, reminiscent of those flowers that only grew in her kingdom. Sylleblossom.

She stopped at the base of the stairs and curtsied. "My king."

"Sylva." In spite of everything—in spite of his aching heart and foreboding concerns of the future, in spite of the plague in his kingdom and renewed daemon activity outside the Wall—he found himself smiling. "Your timing is as impeccable as ever."

"It is my duty as Oracle to serve in your hour of need."

"And as a friend?" Regis asked.

"As a friend, it is my honor to aid in any way I can."

Much as he wished to make use to the latter before the former, his hands were tied by his own duties. Political niceties dictated the steps to the diplomatic dance, and so they followed them. Sylva was granted rooms in the guest wing of the Citadel and court adjourned in preparation of a no less formal, but rather more business-oriented meeting. The council assembled. A fourteenth chair was arranged at the opposite end of the table, across from Regis. Refreshments were served and the closed-doors meeting commenced.

Silence, save for the shuffling of papers filled the council chamber. Regis motioned to Clarus.

"As per your last letter, Oracle, we have scoured the kingdom for those afflicted by the Starscourge," Clarus began. "Their numbers are not dangerously large, but enough, still, to cause concern on our part. Try though we might, our people have been able to find no cure, nor treatment for this illness."

"Nor will they," Sylva said. "The Starscourge possesses a magic of its own, unlike any we have ever seen elsewhere. Such a darkness flows too deeply to be penetrated by mere technology. The only cure for a dark magic is a bright one."

"I beg to differ, Queen Sylva," Aldebrand said. "The empire has made considerable headway against both the magic of Lucis and of Tenebrae, has it not? For hundreds of years, they have waged war on magic with 'mere technology' and encountered only insufficient resistance."

Sylva lowered her head in concession. "You are correct, of course, Master Aldebrand. And yet, Niflheim has never yet succeeded in truly eliminating Lucis' magic—or Tenebrae's—they seek only to counter or to overcome with brute force. That is not an option, while we endeavor to cure Lucis' people of the Starscourge."

"Is there a magic that will cure them, Oracle?" Felice asked.

"By the light vested in me by the blood of the Oracle, they can be cleansed," Sylva said. "And with your permission, my king, that is what I shall do."

"Indeed," Regis said, "That is what I had hoped for. To assemble the ill may take some time, given that not all of them have submitted to treatment. Nevertheless, I believe word of your visit may well draw them. How long will the cleansing take?"

"It takes but a few moments to set in motion the magic that will drive the Starscourge from their bodies, but I must see to your people one at a time. The full length of time, then, depends on the number of people who require my aid."

Clarus cleared his throat. "By last estimate, we had some three hundred people showing signs of infection."

"And they are spread across Lucis?" She asked.

"Clustered, but yes," Clarus said.

"Then I will go to them, if that is agreeable to His Majesty," she said.

"Master Felice," Regis said, "See to it that the treatment facility in Duscae is prepared to receive the Oracle. Following that, arrange and release a schedule for her visits across each outpost in Lucis. This information must be made public if the afflicted are to arrive in time."

"Of course, Your Majesty," said Felice.

"There is one other service I might offer, Your Majesty," said Sylva. "With the rising power of the Starscourge, nights grow ever more unsafe beyond your Wall. My magic has the power to repel daemons, for a time. By your leave, my king, I might enchant certain places around Lucis, to allow safe-haven for travelers in the night."

"That would put a great many minds at ease," Regis said. "Are there supplies or preparation you would require for this enchantment?"

"None, save time, Your Majesty."

"Then we will need probable locations to be hallowed," Regis said. "Master Felice, you will see that suitable locations are found and marked."

Felice added a note to the papers before her. "It will be done, Your Majesty."

While arrangements were underway, they had some little time. In spite of that, it was difficult to find even an hour alone when he could speak to Sylva. Council proceedings went on for some time, mapping out the route she would take through the Outlands, discussing suitable locations for her enchantments, and on and on. When that, at last, concluded, the diplomacy dragged on. Of course, with such a prestigious guest in his halls, it was expected that she be paraded about before the people.

They took dinner, that night, in the grand hall—which Regis did less often than his council would have liked—with half of Insomnia in attendance, or so it seemed. How they had managed to draw up a seating plan for so many people in so little time, he never could fathom. Nevertheless, no one seemed out of place and, so far as Regis could see, everything went along smoothly.

Reina and Noctis arrived, looking both austere and adorable in their formal attire. Ignis ushered them along and in their wake trailed Jenet. Regis tried to ignore the pain he felt just at the sight of her. It was impossible to see another woman with his children and not think of Crea.

"Sylva." Regis motioned. "My children; Noctis and Reina—and their young adviser, Ignis Scientia. Children, this is Sylva Nox Fleuret, the Oracle."

Ignis bowed low. A moment later, Reina gave a wobbly curtsy and Noctis bowed awkwardly. Regis had no doubt that Ignis' tutors had explained to him beforehand the intricacies of Sylva's position and exactly how to address her. By now, he could doubtless recite the history of the Nox Fleuret line from heart, along with every one of Sylva's personal accomplishments. That child had a memory like no other.

"It is an honor to meet you both, Your Highnesses." Sylva curtsied. "I hope, someday, I will be able to introduce you to my children."

"You have kids, too?!" Noctis asked.

Ignis, standing beside him, stiffened with disapproval. Evidently, whatever instructions he had passed on about how to address the Oracle had  _not_ sunk in.

"I do." Sylva seemed not to notice. "Lunafreya is eight and Ravus is twelve."

"Wow! They're old!" Noctis said.

Regis ducked his head to hide a grin. Sylva only smiled gracefully. "They are not so much older than you. Soon you will be just as big as they are."

Following pleasantries and introduction to several dozen native Insomnian nobles, all were seated and the long meal commenced. Sylva sat in the place of honor at Regis' left and the prince and princess sat to his right. Beyond them was Ignis, who knew more about table manners than Regis had ever forgotten knowing. He passed all of this on to Noctis and Reina in the matter-of-fact tone of one reading from a textbook. They listened—for a minute or two. Even that long was surprising. Then they went about their own dinners, largely ignoring his corrections—or at least taking them so in stride that it appeared as if they hardly noticed him correcting their grips on their forks, rearranging their napkins, or repeatedly tucking their elbows in closer. Ignis spent more time ensuring that Noctis and Reina ate their dinners properly than he did eating his own dinner.

Sylva caught him watching them with a foolish smile on his face.

"They are truly a blessing." She leaned closer to speak in an undertone.

"They are," Regis agreed, though his smile faded as he recalled to mind the subject he wanted to broach with her—privately. It did no good dwelling on that while they were at a table full of people, however. He cleared his throat and pulled his eyes from the children just as Ignis berated Noctis for spitting a tomato back onto his salad plate. "They are my light in dark times."

Sylva considered him with a gaze that suggested she saw straight through him and into his mind. "And times grow ever darker."

Regis looked away and took a drink of his wine. "Indeed."

How much did she know, already? How much had she guessed from his demeanor? He was doomed not to find the answers for another hour and a half.

They trudged through dinner, making polite small talk and avoiding all subjects of significance. They spoke of children—both his and hers—and of dull household matters, as if they were not both the monarchs of kingdoms besieged, as if darkness did not encroach, and as if this political dinner was the most important and interesting event to happen to either of them in months.

When, at last, it was through, Regis bid goodnight to his children, leaving them in Jenet's capable hands, and left with Sylva—ostensibly to see her to her guest suite. Instead, they retired to a private lounge in the upper levels of the Citadel and, for the first time since her arrival, had a closed door between them and the rest of the world. Avun brought wine and a selection of after-dinner fruits, then withdrew.

For a time, they merely sat in silence, swirling blood-red wine in their glasses but not drinking. So many words begged to be spoken that Regis couldn't decide where to start.

He chose the middle.

"I fear for Noctis' future."

She sat forward and set down her full glass of wine. "What troubles you?"

"I have told this to no one," Regis admitted, "Not even Clarus. But the Lucii warn that the time of the Chosen King approaches. Come August, I am required to bring my son before the crystal so that his mettle might be judged…"

She placed her hand over the top of his. "And you fear he will be Chosen."

It wasn't a question, but Regis answered it even so. "Yes."

She squeezed his hand. "I fear I know little more than you, none of it definitive. I sense dark times ahead for all of us. The Starscourge is swelling with more force than it has done for centuries. If the time of the King of Light is, indeed, at hand, then that my well explain the omens."

"You know of his fate?" Regis asked.

"Like you, I understand the full extent of the prophecy—or, at the very least, as much of it as the Gods have shared with any mortals."

"Then you understand my fears."

"I do. The Chosen King will walk a long and difficult path. And in the end, he will give much the same thing that his forefathers have given for Lucis, before him."

"We, at least, were granted enough time to live our lives." Regis shook his head. "Will he have even that much? Time to grow into a man, to experience the world, to fall in love, to bring a son of his own into this world?"

"I know no more than you. But it is my experience that, even in the darkest times, humankind finds a way to thrive." She caught his gaze and held it, and for a time they simply sat in silence. She squeezed his hand; he took hers in both of his.

At length, she broke the silence again. "I gather that you have yet to name an heir."

"No. Crea—" He stopped short at her name rising unconsciously to his lips. He shut his eyes, swallowed the lump in his throat, and pushed on. "I had thought, and their nanny agreed, that it would be best for both of them to grow up without that shadow hanging above them. Now it seems the crystal will make that choice for me."

"Will it?"

He looked up at her.

"If Noctis is Chosen," she said, "It will be his destiny not to rule in peacetime, but to end a war two-thousand years in the making. I know not at what time this may occur—he may yet sit the throne before—but when Noctis has fulfilled his destiny only one Caelum will be left for the throne."

"You mean that if Noctis is Chosen…  _Reina_  will be queen."

"It seems a strong possibility," she agreed.

He hadn't even considered that. Somehow, it only made matters worse.

"Then both of them are doomed to be trapped by this decision," he said.

"Regis…" She extracted one hand from him and smoothed her fingers over his beard. "Is your crown so heavy…?"

"Is yours not?"

How could any sane person sit with this weight on their shoulders and feel comfortable with it? Even had he not borne the weight of the Wall, the power and responsibility that he wielded as king seemed enough to shorten his lifespan by a few decades. Hundreds of thousands of people looked to him for their safety and well-being. They trusted him with their lives and often he wondered what he had done to earn that trust. The disturbing truth was that he had done nothing. He had been born with a name, and along with the name came a crown and a throne and a trust that he had never wanted. Never deserved.

"The weight of it is lessened when you share your burdens," she said.

Regis pulled back; her touch fell away from him and he made no attempt to hold onto it. He rose and crossed to the window, taking a drink of his wine. "Those whom I can share this with diminish day by day. I have only Clarus, now, and he has a life of his own—his son requires the firm guidance of his father more than I do, and his wife is with child once more."

"You speak as an old man with no capacity and no time to grow. The world is not at an end, yet, Regis. You might still form new bonds, if you tried."

He took another drink of his wine and stared out over the city. Somewhere out there, Crea sat in her new house drinking hot tea from a mug with a chocobo-shaped tea infuser.

"I have tried," he said. "You forget that it requires a great deal from the other party."

Not many would take on this weight of his willingly. He could never hold that against them—not Crea, not anyone. Given the choice, he never would have taken it, either. It was a wise woman who turned from the offer he had given her.

"No, my dear," Regis said. "This is a weight I must bear on my own. I might spend all that remains of my life waiting for someone to lighten it for me, only to die disappointed in the end. It is best if I do not count on it."

She rose and came to stand beside him, not immediately speaking. She was tall for a woman—or it was her shoes—only a few inches shorter than him. She tucked her hands around his arm and stood that way, collecting her words.

"You must believe as your heart dictates, but I know that someday you will again have a family of those who can share your burdens. More than just Clarus."


	25. Outlands

A few days passed in preparation of Sylva's trip across Lucis. It took that long, at least, for all involved to be convinced that Regis should accompany her. Usually, he would have been the one doing the convincing. But as the summer slipped away more and more rapidly with each passing week, he was loath to spend more time than necessary away from his children. Not that this reluctance meant he had any more time than usual to spend with them, merely that he was more cross than usual when he didn't. Sylva was the one coaxing him to leave Insomnia to its own devices, for a few days.

"It would do you good to see your people," she told him, "And it will do your people good to see  _you_."

The second, at least, was a truth he could not argue with. The first may have been true, as well, but if seeing his people meant less of seeing his children, he was inclined to believe it was a goodness he could do without. Nevertheless, in the end he gave in.

_Duty_  the Lucii whispered.

And he would do his duty.

Clarus was not pleased with the arrangement, either. It meant several days of Regis out in the open, and that was cause enough to make any Shield nervous. But, as ever, once Regis' mind was made up he did not offer any arguments. He arranged that a full retinue of Crownsguard should come with them, along with Cor and, of course, himself. That last sowed dissent in the council. If both the king and the royal adviser were gone from the capital, who was to run Lucis? Clarus informed them succinctly that Lucis could run itself quite well with neither king nor royal adviser for a few days. He refused to budge from his decision.

And so, with much pomp and ceremony, the royal retinue departed from Insomnia. Again, they passed through Hammerhead and again Regis wondered at the whereabouts of another lost friend. But he caught no sight of Cid, neither that day nor any of the others.

Their first stop was in Duscae, just outside of the Disc, where a Starscourge treatment facility had been established—for all the good it had done. Those few hundred from their estimate of the afflicted were mostly here. And here Regis found that Sylva was correct once again. To hear the numbers and receive reports while he sat atop his throne was nothing to walking among them and seeing them with his own eyes.

The Starscourge was a blood illness. Though the first symptom was often a cough, which developed into a difficulty breathing and a black fluid in the lungs, the tell-tale sign developed later. It ran in the infected's bloodstream and turned crimson so dark that their veins could been seen—stark black—underneath too-pale skin. In the later stages of the disease, it turned eyes foggy and white as it attacked not just the circulatory and respiratory systems, but the nervous system as well. The Starscourge took from them their sight and, slowly, control of their limbs, and all the while drained its victims of their strength, as their bodies struggled to survive against it. No one who progressed so far in the disease ever survived. Unless the Oracle laid her hands on them.

The treatment facility—always a hospital, but now turned home to hundreds of condemned men and women—was too small for the number of patients and poorly funded at that. Regis had seen, on paper, how much Aldebrand granted them from the treasury each month, but now that he stood in their midst it seemed so insufficient. They were understaffed and under-stocked. If they had been inside Insomnia, this would have been unthinkable. The mere fact that being  _outside_ the Wall made it acceptable to so many people  _was_ unthinkable. That such a place existed in his kingdom and he knew so little about it…

They met first with the management, who introduced them to the doctors and all of their medical staff. Though Sylva was eager to see to the patients, she withstood the necessary niceties with the sort of grace he expected from royalty. When, at last, all hands had been shaken and due recognition had been given for all their hard work, the real work began.

Regis had seen Sylva's magic at work in the past. She had the line of healing magic that was so often weak or nonexistent in the Lucis Caelum bloodline. Regis could, if the situation called for it, channel the power of The Oracle King through the Ring of the Lucii and heal thus. His own magic, without the connections of the ring, left much to be desired. Even so, his forefathers had warned him against the costs—and the dangers—of healing. Better to protect the masses than waste his strength healing the few.

Sylva had no such limitations, it seemed. Doubtless, her magic had its own strengths and weaknesses, and its own costs, but she approached the Starscourge head on and addressed it as directly as an adept warrior might have challenged a daemon.

They were escorted to the first of many rooms, wherein lay an old man on a hospital bed. He struggled to sit upright when they entered and Sylva was at his side in an instant. She eased him into a more comfortable position, murmuring warm words of encouragement: how strong he was to maintain the fight for so long, how much it must have cost him to carry on day after day; all of his efforts would soon pay off. She would take away the pain.

Regis stood at the door, hardly noticed behind the light of Sylva's glow. At his side, Clarus was as nervous as a mother over a reckless child. Did he really expect to encounter danger inside a hospital? Of course he did. Why else would he have brought himself and Cor along instead of simply sending the contingent of Crownsguard? That was his job, in any case: to worry about the king's safety so that the king could worry about more important matters.

Cor was outside the door, waiting in the hall along with half a dozen Crownsguards and Avunculus. How, exactly, anyone managed to travel without an entire entourage, Regis wasn't entirely certain. Even if he had wanted to, a whole guard of people would have been assigned to escort him. The Crownsguards he could have done without. But Avun had proven himself invaluable time and time again since Weskham's departure; likely, Regis  _couldn't_ have done without him.

Sylva worked her magic on the afflicted man. She laid her hands on either side of his face, pressing her forehead gently to his and… did  _something_. It was difficult to describe what another's magic felt like. In his entire life, Regis had only known two other people who could use magic at all: his father and Sylva. His father's magic had been familiar, predictable, and, in time, Regis could recognize by feel precisely what was being done, even without knowing the outcome. Sylva's magic, on the other hand, had always been more foreign. A hint of something recognizable flitted just on the edge of his understanding, like a memory he couldn't quite grasp, and then vanished in a flash of light. He lowered his gaze as her magic brightened until she and the man both shone with sunlight too bright to behold. And then it faded.

He and Clarus were left blinking to clear spots from their gaze. The sensation of magic drained slowly from the room, once more passing beyond Regis' capability to understand it. When he could see once more, Sylva was straightening and the man—his skin now clear of tainted black veins and cloudy eyes—was rising shakily to his feet. He thanked her profusely so many times over that he ran out of words to do so with. Then he turned to Regis and bowed and thanked him as well, though Regis insisted the credit was not his to take. It was some few minutes before they were able to pull away and move on to the next.

And so it went, throughout the treatment facility. By the third room Cor was already impatient, but he was too well disciplined to even shift on his feet; he stood, resolute, and stared down the hall outside each room while Regis entered with Clarus. Clarus was also well-schooled at hiding his emotions—he would not have gone far in the Lucian court if he were not—but even the most skilled courtier was likely to grow bored after hours of watching the same scene unfold, time and time again.

There was little for Regis to do, either; he shook hands with the cured men and women, offering some few words of acknowledgement or comfort, but he was little more than a symbol to them. An important symbol—a sign that their king was watching over them and meant to protect all of his people—but a symbol, nevertheless. He occupied himself, instead, with studying Sylva's magic.

But by the time Sylva had worked her way through the entire hospital, it was well past nightfall and Regis was forced to admit what he had already known from the start: that he did not have the power nor the skill to reproduce what she did.

They stayed in a hotel in the Outlands, that night, electing not to travel in the dark on unsafe roads. They took up the entire hotel, which only had a handful of rooms to begin with, and Clarus seemed well pleased with that fact. To Clarus, it meant less chance of some far-fetched attack from within the hotel. He was over-cautious. The people in the Outlands viewed Regis as king in the same distant fashion that they recognized the sun as a star: true, perhaps, but with so few practical similarities that it hardly warranted the comparison in day-to-day life. Royalty meant something different, in the Outlands.

They ate a sub-par meal with overcooked meat and under-cooked vegetables, drank a glass of wine each before admitting the vintage wasn't worth a second attempt, and climbed into lumpy beds, exhausted for having done very little—all of them save Sylva, in any case, who had every right to crave her rest.

Regis' heart ached for his children. It was the first time since their birth that he had slept so far away from them. Even on those days when he had been too busy to visit while they were awake, he always made a habit of stopping by their room to kiss them goodnight—even if they were already asleep. Tonight he had no such privilege. And tomorrow would be another long day in their absence. The start of the longest stretch he went without seeing them. Such was his duty.

He slept poorly, that night. Not merely because the bed was uncomfortable, but because he longed so keenly for his children. He woke—if it could be called that—in the morning with the sensation of having been cut in two. Half of him had been left in Insomnia. Or two-thirds of him, as was more accurate.

Avunculus brought a tray with coffee—a weak brew, which left an unpleasant sour note on his tongue, but he drank it nonetheless because it was all he had available to him—and somehow managed to make him look presentable. Regis stood in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, watching Avunculus put every last hair in its place. This was why he had brought Avun along. But Gods did he ever miss Wes.

They descended to meet the others for breakfast. Something of Regis' demeanor must have shown on his face, for Clarus grasped his shoulder tightly.

"I know it's not the same, but we  _can_ telephone the Citadel. I'm sure Reina and Noctis would be delighted to have a phone call," he told Regis in an undertone.

Regis only nodded and grimly resigned himself to a questionable breakfast. It was easier to stomach if he tried not to think of it.

Their agenda for the day had a handful of stops around Lucis: various outposts scattered across the continent, where they hoped to find other people in need of Sylva's particular brand of magic. In the absence of that, at least they might spread some hope or marginal faith in the monarchy. The first stop was two hours by car, which left time for Clarus' suggestion to be carried out. Almost without being told, he had dialed the Citadel and had Jenet on the phone.

" _There you are, Your Majesty; you're on the speaker, now. Go ahead, Noctis—say something!"_

Never before had anyone called Noctis and Reina on the phone. While they may have had some passing familiarity with the purpose of a phone, they had never used one. It was no great surprise, then, when neither said anything, even at their nanny's urging.

"Good morning, my dearest ones." Regis sat forward in his seat, putting his elbows to his knees as he pressed Clarus' phone to his ear. The Regalia hummed beneath him, speeding along to her next destination with Cor behind the wheel.

" _Daddy?"_ Noctis called out from the other side of the line.

"Yes, Noctis?"

" _Why are you in a box?"_

Regis laughed. "I am not in a box. I am in the Regalia, but I am able to speak with you through the phone."

" _Oh,"_ said Noctis, with the unmistakable air of one who has no idea what was just said.

"Are you being good for Jenet?"

" _Yes!"_ Here, at least, was a question he knew the answer to—even if it wasn't true. " _I ate all my breakfast, and I read a whole book. Ignis said I did everything right!"_

"That is extraordinary, Noctis. Mayhap when I return,  _you_ will read  _me_  a bedtime story."

Noctis giggled. " _No, Dad! You have to read it!"_

"You will not read me a bedtime story?" Regis put on his best tone of dismay.

" _No!"_ Noctis laughed.

"How ever am I to sleep if you do not read to me?"

Having no apparent answer for this, Noctis only laughed.

"Is Reina there?" Regis asked.

" _She is, Your Majesty,"_ Jenet responded. " _Only she's not saying anything. Just staring at the phone with that look on her face—you know the one, Sire, where she scrunches up her eyebrows and twists her little lips in a bunch."_

"I do." He could practically see it, just from the description.

" _Go on, darling, it's your dad! Say something for him."_

"Reina, my dear, are you having a nice morning?"

No response.

"Have you been reading along with Noctis?"

Quiet, for a moment. Then Noctis saw fit to answer for his sister. " _Rei doesn't read, Dad!"_

" _Noctis, hush!"_ Jenet scolded.

Regis' brow furrowed. As a toddler, it had taken her months longer than Noctis to begin speaking. Would it be the same for everything, save music?

"Does she not read?" He asked.

" _She reads, Your Majesty, just does it more quietly. Noctis likes to take his book and sit on Ignis' lap and tell everyone the story—and Ignis helps if he gets stuck. But Reina seems happy to sit on her own and whisper the words to herself like no one is listening. And if anyone_ does  _admit they're listening she shoots them such a look! I've never seen such a fierce glare on a five year old, Your Majesty."_

He smiled at that. It was astounding how very different the two of them were, for having been given everything the same thus far in their lives—so far as Regis could tell. That Reina wanted to read quietly to herself, however, only made him more keen to have her read to him. She would do it. Of that he had no doubt. Ever since she could walk, she had always done just what he asked of her.

In spite of that, she seemed much too wary of the phone to promise him anything—indeed, to speak to him at all. Though he coaxed, she remained silent throughout their phone conversation, leaving Regis to speak only with Noctis and Jenet. He couldn't help but feel some disappointment at that. Likely it was nothing to how Reina and Noctis felt at being separated from him. At length they reached their destination and Regis was forced to say his goodbyes, promising to call again later.

Coernix Station had no hospital, not even of the makeshift variety, but it did have people and a fair number of them had converged in an effort to see the Oracle. In spite of the rain that was falling in a steady drizzle, they gathered in the open, pressing in toward the cars nearly as soon as they had stopped moving. Cor made a sound of annoyance and shared a glance and a nod with Clarus. They and the other Crownsguards ushered the small crowd back to a more respectable distance before allowing Regis and Sylva to exit the Regalia. Regis gave her an apologetic look. Tenebrae had no Crownsguards, but something told him that Sylva wouldn't have tolerated being kept at an arm's length from her people. That Regis did tolerate it only shamed him.

Indeed, they had only just stepped out into the open before Sylva was passing by the line of Crownsguard to reach those who had come to see her. Among their ranks, Regis picked out more than one with clear signs of the Starscourge. It was as they thought, then; not all those who had taken ill had gone to the treatment facility. Some few others had come for different reasons: there were elderly who came with the mundane complaints of age and hunters who had taken injuries that had never healed properly. Sylva gave each of them the same portion of her time, treating them individually, with the same gentle care that she approached everything else.

Throughout, Regis stood apart between Clarus and Cor. Clarus had produced a large black umbrella from within the car, though Regis hadn't even noticed the rain on his shoulders—or, indeed, the lack thereof—until several minutes after it had stopped. Crea had cured him of that. Many of the Coernix folk came to address him, either after or while they were waiting for their time with Sylva. Though he remained something of a novelty to them, there was a distinct lack of reverence in the way they addressed him. They approached with the same manner of interest they might have given any well-renowned celebrity, and yet, he doubted that more than half of them would have recognized him at all, had he not been wearing a crown and standing among uniformed guards. Nevertheless, they passed by the Crownsguards without any concerns for whether or not they were meant to do so, and came to shake his hand or have a few polite words with him.

If Clarus and Cor disapproved of this, they made no comment, though he did notice that both of them stiffened when one of the hunters afflicted with Starscourge came close. Was it contamination that concerned them? It had been established with certainty that the scourge was not spread through handshakes or breath. Sylva had confirmed that the disease could spread through blood, but that its primary means of infection was via the black clouds of miasma, which the late-stage infected exuded and only at night. Nevertheless, both of his watch dogs guarded him carefully against an otherwise harmless woman and breathed a sigh of relief once she was gone.

"What, precisely, has you both so worked up?" Regis asked in an undertone, when a lull formed between people.

Cor exchanged a glance with Clarus.

"The Starscourge turns men into daemons, does it not?" Clarus asked.

"Gods forbid," Regis sighed. "Yes, in theory, the very late stages of the scourge are capable of causing such a transformation. But it has not occurred in generations. Hundreds of years have passed since the last recorded corruption of that magnitude. When King Valerian pushed back the Starscourge two hundred years ago, giving up his life in the process, it stripped much of the power from the scourge. Since then, the disease has never transformed human into daemon."

"But it is growing stronger," Cor reminded him.

"Since two hundred years ago," Clarus said, "It has been nearly unheard of to even contract the Starscourge. Until now."

"There have been occasional sightings of it." Regis shifted uncomfortably. "Or even small outbreaks where the afflicted have been killed by the progress of the disease—but not transformed."

"But nothing of this magnitude," Clarus said.

"Nothing of this magnitude," Regis agreed at last.

Their fears in Coernix proved unfounded. In a few hours, the retinue of king and Oracle was on its way once more, no worse for the contact with the afflicted, though a little more damp than they had been to begin with. The procession continued as such throughout Lucis. Each stop was much the same: people had gathered, whether to be cured of the Starscourge or some other affliction, or merely to see king and Oracle. There were not, as Regis had feared, too many beyond the walls of the treatment facility who had contracted the scourge. Most whom they met were simply seeking cures for everyday woes.

At nights they stayed in whatever hotel the Outland outposts had to offer, and found them all in much the same state as the first had been, save for the hotel in Lestallum and the one in Galdin Quay. Of those two, only the latter would ever have been found inside the Wall, unless Regis was very much mistaken about the quality of lodging inside the Crown City. Which, come to think of it, would not have been so far-fetched.

Between the outposts, they stopped off at sites designated by Master Felice to be warded against daemons. Whoever had found the spots had chosen well; each one was situated off the road but within walking distance, filling up the gaps between outposts to ensure that no one would ever be caught on the road at night. At each of these sites, Sylva worked a different sort of magic, which Regis understood no better than he did the healing magic. She walked the perimeter of each site and called upon the strength of her own bloodline to hold these spaces safe and secure against daemons and encroaching night, regardless of the absence of lights. When she was finished, each campsite glowed faintly with blue runes and on more than one occasion, Regis thought he saw faint wisps of blue magic drifting up—as smoke from a fire—from the warded safe haven.

On the night slated to be their last beyond the Wall, they stood in Leide and watched Sylva perform her warding ritual for the last time. They were not far from Hammerhead and, though there was no plan in the schedule to pass through that outpost and seek out a particularly cantankerous old mechanic, Regis was of half a mind to do so, anyway. It had been over ten years since the last time they had spoken face to face. They were do for a reunion.

It would be enlightening, as well, to learn of the goings-on in the Outlands from a native. Reading reports or hearing the explanations given by Felice and others in court and council was nothing to experiencing the state of Lucis first hand. And even then he had no doubt that he had missed things.

Even so, what little he had seen in these few days was troubling. The Starscourge was more widespread than he had been lead to believe. This was due, in part, to a lack of understanding; the affliction had a myriad of signs, not all of which were clear or always present upon infection—especially in the early stages of the disease. As such, many who had contracted the scourge had had no idea. A small collection of clerks had taken copious notes on all those that Sylva had healed, however, and when those notes were consolidated and poured over in hindsight, the number of people whom had been treated for the Starscourge was disconcerting, to say the very least.

If that was not enough to make him uneasy, there was the extent to which the scourge had developed in the most pronounced cases. A man in Old Lestallum had been coughing up black ichor before Sylva treated him; another in Meldacio had actually begun to avoid the sunlight, claiming that even a few seconds burned his skin; and an old woman down in Caem had a growing patch of blackened skin on her shoulder. The more they saw, the more Regis became certain: this was not an anomalous outbreak of the Starscourge, which could be treated and then forgotten about. This was a sign of something much worse to come.

It was twilight by the time Sylva was finished with the wards. They needed to be on their way, lest they be caught in the darkness they were trying so hard to protect his people from. But they also had the unique advantage of being, temporarily, in the middle of nowhere. When they reached the hotel, which was to be their last, they would have no chance to speak for fear of being overheard.

Regis ordered the Crownsguards, attendants, and clerks back to the cars. Clarus and Cor would let him out of their sight under no circumstances, but he could be within sight and beyond earshot. So he motioned them to remain while he went ahead toward the haven to speak with Sylva, who was walking the perimeter, checking her work.

She glanced up when she heard him approaching. "The wards should hold on their own for at least fifty years. Beyond that, they may need to be renewed, but I suspect that will prove unnecessary."

Her words all but confirmed his fears. "Because this is the end. Twilight has come and the King of Light is born."

"Yes." She straightened to look at him and something like sympathy flashed across her face.

"In fifty years, the state of these wards will not matter. By that time, my son will have—" He choked on the words. Even as he stood here, staring down the truth, eye to eye, he couldn't say it.

Sylva took a step forward, laying her hand on his arm. "I can only offer my condolences, Regis, and my apologies. When first I arrived, I was not certain and I could offer you no more definite answer than that. But now I see as you do: this is the way it must be."

"He is only five years old." His voice cracked. He shut his eyes and a tear escaped down his cheek.

Sylva squeezed his arm. "He will have time, yet. My sight is limited, but I believe we might hold it back for a few decades more."

"A few  _decades?_ " Regis pulled his arm from her grip. "That is what you offer me? That he might live to see twenty-five or thirty-five? He will be  _younger than me_  when he—" Something, still, held him back from saying the words. As if it would be any less real if he refused to.

He turned away from her, looking out across the darkened desert. It wasn't Sylva's fault any more than it was Clarus' fault or Cor's fault, but she was the only one he had to direct his anger toward and anger felt more manageable than the black grief he knew would encroach, after.

The sun had set. They needed to be on the road, again, but few things sounded worse to Regis than returning to face other people and pretending that everything was fine. He stood and stared out toward the darkening horizon, while Sylva's footsteps hesitated behind him. Movement caught his eye, over behind some rocks not more than thirty feet away. Likely it was just some beast on its way to den for the night, but it held Regis' attention, nevertheless.

Sylva was behind him again. "Regis—"

He lifted a hand to silence her and pointed toward the rocks. She came to stand beside him, looking where he pointed. Again, they caught sight of it—not a beast, for it seemed to walk on two legs, yet it wove unevenly across the level ground, as if unsteady on its feet. It stumbled closer still and, like the flicking of a switch in his mind, Regis suddenly perceived that it was not some sinister, shadowy form, but a  _man_.

He caught sight of them—or else he had always been fixed on them—and reached out one hand as he took several more shaky steps in their direction. "Your Majesty… Oracle…" His voice was hoarse and dry, as if the words were forced from a parched throat.

Sylva gave a startled cry. "Light of the Six, what is he doing out there?"

She stepped in front of Regis and beyond the bounds of the haven. No sooner had she done so than the glowing wards lit the man's face.

If he had thought the patch of blackened skin on the old woman in Caem was unsettling, it was nothing to this. A full half of the man's face was black as pitch and slick with oozing ichor. The same inky substance had taken over one of his arms, but it hadn't simply blackened the skin. It had transformed. What should have been a human hand now ended in long, talon-like fingers that hung nearly to the man's knees. He walked unevenly because his body was uneven.

Regis' first impulse was to take a step back. His second was to grab for Sylva and prevent her from moving any closer to the abomination that now approached them, but she was already out of his reach.

"Sylva—" Regis reached beyond the physical and into the pocket dimension to grasp his sword. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the hilt, it leapt to his hand in a flash of blue. "That is beyond even your formidable healing powers."

She hesitated, looking back toward Regis. The creature did not.

"Help… me…" It shambled forward, reaching with its human arm.

When she looked back at it, it was nearly upon her. Whether she saw the truth in Regis' words or simply reacted out of horror, she, too, took a step back. "I'm so sorry…"

The creature paused, staring at her with an open mouth as black ichor dripped from between its lips. Then it threw back its head and screamed—a sound unlike anything Regis had ever heard before. It lunged forward, lifting its clawed hand to reach for her, this time.

"Clarus—!" Regis shouted over his shoulder. The brief glance was enough to tell him both Clarus and Cor were already on their way, having not waited for his call. He turned back around and flung his blade across the distance to the daemon.

His sword plunged into its midsection and Regis followed swiftly after; in another burst of magic, he appeared with his hand on the hilt. He pulled it free and blackness dripped from the wound in place of blood. The daemon screamed again, staggering back just enough to let Regis put himself between it and Sylva. It lifted its taloned hand once more and Regis threw up his sword to deflect the blow when it came down. His blade was heavier than he remembered it being. Or his arm was weaker. No time to worry about which, now.

He forced the daemon back, using both hands on the hilt of his sword and a well-timed shove. It staggered again and, while it was finding its balance, Regis gathered a handful of lightning and threw that. The magic arced and cracked, sending the daemon reeling and pushing Regis back a step. Sylva was at his back. He could feel the brush of her hand between his shoulder blades.

The daemon was still on its feet. Regis held his sword at his side, waiting, and gathered up another handful of lightning. It crackled in his palm, tingling hot against his skin while the daemon recovered its balance.

So focused was Regis on his target, that he hardly noticed the approach of footsteps until Clarus and Cor both surged past him. The daemon took both their blades, one after another. Cor's katana plunged straight through its midsection and out the other side, while Clarus' blade cleaved cleanly through shoulder and collarbone like. The scream it gave, this time, gurgled and spilled black ichor. Cor pulled his blade free and swung again while Clarus was still repositioning himself. The daemon was already done for, but Cor never had been one to do things by halves. Even as his blade sliced the human arm neatly from its body, the daemon was sublimating into a black mist as the eerie scream faded into a whisper of the wind. Before its body hit the ground, half of it was gone.

The human arm remained on the ground at Cor's feet.

Clarus straightened, releasing his blade, which vanished in a flash of Regis' magic, and turned back toward them. "Come. We have lingered here too long. Let us make haste for the hotel."

"No." Regis let his own blade go, returning it to the In Between until he called it next, and crushed the lightning in his hand until it was no more. "We return to Insomnia."

If he had needed any more surety that this was the age of twilight, that had been it. One of his own people, transformed into a daemon by this accursed plague. But just then, it meant only one thing to him:

Noctis' life was forfeit.


	26. Darkness

Not even the Regalia could bear them home as quickly as Regis wished. If it had been in his power, he would have spirited all of them through another dimension and away to Insomnia. As it was, he was forced to sit in the back of his car alongside Sylva as Cor drove them home. The silence that stretched between the four of them was tense. Clarus sat in the front seat with his eyes fixed on the road, though occasionally he glanced back toward Regis. They had all, doubtless, drawn their own conclusions as to what the purpose of the rapid departure was, and they were all, doubtless, wrong. Sylva was the only one who might have come close.

That there were daemons in Lucis, indeed, that  _his people_  were turning into daemons, was an unsettling fact. A fact that was only distantly related to Regis' decision. Once they were all on the other side of the Wall and he had his son in his arms again, then he could feel reckless for choosing to push through the night while daemons stirred outside their cars. Until then, he watched the darkness outside the window with everyone else, trying not to see shapes in the shadows when there were none.

It was difficult to discern exactly which shadows flickered from the passing of their headlights and which ones shifted because they were alive. More than once, Regis thought he caught sight of a bipedal creature lurking at the edge of the road, just out of reach of the line of headlights. All of them had the same unnatural gait to their motions, as if they had forgotten the ease with which they used to walk while they were still human. He should have felt sorrow at that. These creatures had been, largely, human at one point. Perhaps many of them had been his own people. And yet, the only care he spared for them, now, was that if they attacked the cars, it would delay him further. Beyond that, he felt only bitterness toward them. That their death should be more important than his son's life…

The Regalia lurched, then swerved, throwing them all sideways in their seats. Regis turned to look down the road; the way ahead was blocked by a handful of those creatures. Just watching them move was enough to set Regis' stomach churning. The bodies were still vaguely humanoid, that was the most unsettling thing about it, but when they moved, if was as if someone had taken a human and added joints, removed bones, and taught it to walk by leaving it to its own devices.

"No way around, unless you want me to plow straight through," Cor called from behind the wheel.

Regis wasn't certain that he didn't prefer driving through them. It would certainly be faster.

"Better that we eliminate them, now," Clarus said, ever the voice of pragmatism while Regis' brain wasn't working. "For every one we kill, these roads will be marginally safer at night."

Safer. Nothing would ever be safe again. Not until Noctis was sacrificed on the throne to buy peace for the world.

He was only five.

Cor didn't wait for confirmation from Regis, and neither did Clarus. They stepped out of the car, drawing their blades, and Regis rose from his seat a moment later. He spared a fleeting glance for Sylva before he closed her in the car. She was well capable of handling herself. He left the choice to her whether to remain behind or come along with them.

"Make this quick," Regis ordered as he advanced behind Clarus and Cor. He drew his sword and found the weight too heavy to be comforting in his palm. Perhaps if Clarus and Cor had not conspired to curtail his morning workout, it wouldn't have been. He refused to think further on it.

The daemons outnumbered them, but they were scattered and disorderly. If not for the fact that Regis' mind was occupied elsewhere, it might have been comforting to stand in battle once more beside his brothers. As it was, all he could think of was returning to Insomnia and Noctis.

Clarus plowed head on into the cluster of daemons, catching two of them off-guard with a powerful swing of his sword. Cor circled around to flank. Regis hung back, sword in one hand and lightning gathering in the other. The battle shifted, becoming a living thing all on its own. Clarus cleaved through one daemons, leaving the crunch of bone and the inhuman cry hanging in the air, and kicked another toward Cor, who pulled his blade from one in time to impale the oncoming daemon neatly. A car door slammed. Regis kept his eyes on the battle as the daemons scattered, then pulled back in, like shrapnel caught in the implosion following a pressure wave. Once they were in, Regis lifted his hand.

"Stand clear!" He gave them only a breath to do so before he released the handful of lightning, which had been dancing and writhing in his palm, attempting to pull free all along.

The air cracked. His magic leapt from palm to daemon, then from daemon to daemon, leaving a flash of white light in its wake and splitting their ears with too-near thunder. It danced across the earth, taking over all the positions that Clarus and Cor had held not a moment before. Within, the daemons squealed and screamed. And then they fell silent and smoking to the ground.

Clarus turned back toward him, sword vanishing from his grip. "I see you haven't lost your touch."

"It isn't over!" Sylva stepped to Regis' side and threw out her hand. To his left, a barrier formed—not solid like the ones Regis created from his magic, but a shell of light that he could have passed his hand through, if he had a desire to do so.

While it might not have stopped a blade, it was enough to give pause to the daemons that crept from the night, unnoticed in the chaos of the battle. They leapt over the guardrail and recoiled, hissing and spitting as the Oracle's light held them back. Regis didn't wait to find out if they would recover themselves. He lifted his blade and swung for one, letting the weight of the sword carry it down and cleave flesh from bone. The thing cried out and spat black blood at his feet. Regis withdrew his blade and plunged it straight through the daemon's chest. By then, Clarus and Cor had caught up with him. Regis stepped back, passing harmlessly through Sylva's barrier, and left the cleanup to them. They made quick work of the last two daemons, which were both still cowering before the light.

"Let us not linger," Regis released his blade and turned back to the car. "Lest we attract any more of them."

They returned to the Regalia. If anyone thought anything of Regis' strategic choices, they made no mention. Likely, he had met Clarus and Cor's expectations by struggling to lift his blade, thus confirming their fears that he was becoming an impotent old man. A self-fulfilling prophecy, as it was. Regis couldn't bring himself to care.

Those were not the only daemons they saw. On what remained of their drive to Insomnia, they passed several more groups and managed to avoid combat with most of them. Each time they were delayed it grated on Regis' nerves. Was it not enough that these creatures would steal his son's life? Would they also insist upon keeping Regis from him? And for what? Duty? Regis had never hated the word so much as he did, now.

At last they did arrive at the gates, much to the surprise of the guards there. All scheduling aside, they were let in with no fuss and finally made their way inside the Wall, where no more daemons would impede their progress. Ahead, the towers of the Citadel grew taller too slowly. Regis gripped the edge of his seat and counted the seconds, as if each one not spent with his son was a second lost to him.

It was well past midnight when they reached the Citadel. Regis stepped out of the car, leaving the Regalia and everyone else behind. Cor could deal with the car; Clarus could deal with the Crownsguards; Sylva could deal with herself. He took the steps three at a time and waited too long for the lift going to the upper levels of the Citadel. When it finally did arrive, it took too long to bring him upstairs. He leaned against the inside of the elevator, staring at nothing and trying his hardest to think of nothing. The latter was less successful.

Starscourge and encroaching darkness rolled around in his mind. Unbidden visions of his son's lifeless body on the throne flashed before his eyes each time he closed them. A tiny voice in the back of his head still insisted it might not come to pass. It might be the next generation. It might be his son's son. But was that really any better? To condemn a grandson he would never meet to death and to know that his own son would feel this pain he now suffered through was hardly of any consolation. Besides, the Starscourge was growing in power too rapidly. It had to be Noctis. But it might not be.

The elevator chimed. Regis lurched forward and stumbled past the Crownsguards outside, both of whom gave a start and stepped forward, as if to aid him. Regis waved them away and continued down the hall to Noctis' room. The lights were off, save for the pale blue glow of a carbuncle nightlight. In the corner, both beds were occupied by sleeping children. Regis dropped to his knees before Noctis' bed.

He slept, peaceful and unaware, without a care in the world. Regis smoothed his hair back. It was always unruly; it had taken Crea thirty minutes to make Noctis look presentable each day, and some days she simply couldn't convince him to sit still so long. Those were Regis' genes at work. He had never liked sitting still under Weskham's ministrations, either.

To look at Noctis, now, one would think nothing at all had changed. Indeed, it hadn't changed. Not yet. But the chance of this all being coincidence was diminishing by the day. In a few more weeks he would know for certain. That the Gods could reach out and pluck a child from Lucis to drop on the throne and plunge a sword through his heart… the injustice of it turned Regis' blood from cold to boiling in a mere second.

_:You will do your duty, my son.:_  His father's voice boomed in his mind only, but he could almost feel the comforting weight of a hand on his shoulder.

"Of course, Father…"

But he rested his head on Noctis' bed and he wept for the life Noct would never have.

That was where he was when Clarus found him. By that time, Regis had shed every tear he could find within him to shed. His head pounded as if he had just woken the morning after several poor decisions. And still he knelt by Noctis' bed with his head cradled in his arms wishing, not for the first time, that these children could be someone else's children, with a chance at a full life. Now, more than ever, it was true that the throne would curse them to a half life.

"Regis." Clarus rested a hand on his shoulder, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the children. "Will you tell me what is happening?"

Since the corrupted man they had encountered outside the haven in Leide, Regis had hardly spoken a word to anyone. What would they make of his flight from the Outlands for the sake of seeing his son once more? It wasn't as if Noctis would die tonight. He would live another twenty or thirty years. That was what Sylva had thought; and why shouldn't she? She never seemed to struggle to do her own duty. Would she even have hesitated to give up her own children?

He lifted his head to look at Noctis. He was being childish, but knowing wasn't helping matters. Of course she would hesitate, but it was her duty to appear as if she wouldn't. Just as it was Regis'. The prophecy held little with regards to the Chosen King's Oracle, but chances were that young Lunafreya would fare no better.

And Clarus had a son, as well and a daughter on the way. He understood the sacrifices that they all made for the sake of Lucis better than most.

"Not here," Regis said. Not where one of the twins might wake and overhear words that they wouldn't make sense of for years to come, but wouldn't forget, either.

He let Clarus pull him to his feet and together they walked down the hall to Regis' chambers, though he paused in the doorway to Reina and Noctis' room and looked back at his son. Oh Noctis. What he wouldn't have given to save him from this fate.

Clarus shut the door behind them and Regis dropped into his armchair, half-heartedly picking at the buckles that held his cape and pauldron in place.

"Something to drink?" Clarus asked.

There was a decanter of whiskey and several short crystal glasses on the tray on the coffee table. Regis glanced at them and tried to force his mind to think of something besides Noctis. Clarus moved to pour him a glass.

"No," Regis said at last. "Send for some tea. Chamomile."

Clarus' surprise showed briefly on his face, but he tucked it away and stepped to the door to have a word with the attendant waiting outside—not Avun; thankfully the man slept, now and then. Unlike Wes.

They sat in silence until the tea arrived. Regis looked out across the city, unable to keep his mind from the black thoughts that occupied it: the 'what-if's and the 'why-him's. They were still there, neither looking at the other, when the servant came to pour them each a cup of tea and withdraw, leaving them with the pot, the cups, and a little pitcher of cream. So far as he could remember, Regis had never once put sugar in his tea; servants paid close attention.

No one puts cream in Chamomile tea, Crea had told him matter-of-factly. Whether no one simply meant 'not Crea,' or that it was, in fact, a travesty to douse Chamomile with cream within the tea-enthusiast community, he never had found out. He lifted his cup and inhaled deeply. It smelled of her. Of cold nights with the gentle patter of rain on the windows, sitting in her room and sharing a mug of tea. Of adventures in the snow. Of answers. Of certainty. Of letting everything go and just being a father for one night. Of dimly lit bedchambers, where he could even forget he was a father for a little while.

He finished his first cup and poured a second, lamenting the loss of two-hand mugs of tea with cute little chocobo-shaped tea infusers. Clarus didn't press him; he nursed his own cup with the caution usually reserved for unsavory beverages.

At length, Regis spoke.

"Nothing is certain, as of yet… but it is as near as can be, before August. When Reina and Noctis turn five, I will take Noctis before the crystal and I expect it will declare him its Chosen King."

For a moment, Clarus merely stared at him, the information refusing to sink into his brain. "The King of Light? As in the prophecy?"

"Yes," Regis said grimly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand. The prophecy seems to imply that the coming of the Chosen King is cause for celebration."

Regis sighed, steeled himself with another sip of tea, and began. Clarus was one of the few people within the Citadel that he could explain the true extent of the prophecy to. Even if Noctis was the Chosen King, no one else in Lucis would know what that meant. Some things were better left unknown. But Clarus was his Shield and his brother, the one person he could confide anything in. The one person he could tell of the Gods' plans, painful though it was for him to relay them out loud. It was the first time he had ever spoken those words to another person. He hoped it would also be the last.

When he had finished, Clarus sat silent and wide-eyed in the armchair across from him, tea forgotten in his hands. For a long time he said nothing—did nothing. Likely he knew there was nothing he could say that would make matters any better. Anything else could wait for another time.

Eventually he stood, set his tea aside, and pulled Regis to his feet, hugging him fiercely. "Come what may, I will be by your side. Always. And my son will be by Noctis' side. I know it isn't enough, but everything I have to offer is yours to take."

Clarus. Faithful Clarus. Regis had no doubt that he would have given everything he had to give and then some in a heartbeat. If only it would have done some good. Instead, it seemed they would both waste away over this, only to have the same outcome in the end.

Regis grasped Clarus' shoulders, meeting his gaze. "When I stand too near the edge, pull me back."

"Always."


	27. Chosen

Regis didn't sleep in his own bed, that night. Indeed, he slept very little, but when he did, it was in the chair in Reina and Noctis' room, and when he woke it was to squeals of delight and two children climbing into his lap. He wrapped his arms around them automatically, still half asleep but knowing that he was home and with his heart once more.

Reina was holding the chubby little chocobo that Crea had given her. She stood on his lap and threw her arms around his neck and stayed there for an indeterminate amount of time without saying a word. She might have fallen back asleep, but he couldn't see to check. Noctis, on the other hand, Settled himself comfortably beside Reina and launched into a detailed, meandering, and occasionally incomprehensible story of everything that had happened while Regis was away.

Ignis had taken them out through the gardens and they had spotted a white and orange cat, but it was much too nimble to catch and in the end Noctis had ended up with a tear in his trousers and Ignis had gotten in trouble for it because it was Ignis' job to make sure Noctis and Reina didn't get into any trouble while they were out and about with him. Noctis thought this was the funniest fact. He was going to try for a tear in his coat, next time, and see how much trouble Ignis would get in that way. Regis was too distracted to tell him off for it. He only smoothed his hair back and kissed his head and listened to the full adventures of five year olds.

They were still there, when Jenet arrived.

"Oh, Your Majesty! I didn't realize you were back! I thought it strange that they didn't come wake me, this morning."

"We returned late last night," Regis supplied, and nothing more. "How have they been?"

"As well behaved as can be expected, Your Majesty," she said, which wasn't quite an answer. "There was something of a scrap in the gardens—I'd thought young Master Ignis'd have the sense to keep them from chasing kittens and crawling through bushes, but I guess I was wrong. And… um… Princess Reina hasn't been sleeping so good, Your Majesty."

"Why not?" Regis tilted his head back to look at Reina. She was still awake, fat chocobo clutched to her chest and one thumb stuck in her mouth. She looked up at him with those great big blue eyes of hers, but didn't say a word.

"I think she missed you, Your Majesty… I found her outside your door at night with just her chocobo and her blanket a few times and had to carry her back here."

Regis smoothed her hair back. "My dear, were you waiting for me?"

She nodded, thumb still in her mouth.

"I apologize for being gone so long. Sometimes a king must attend to things outside the Citadel, even if I would rather be here with the two of you." She only blinked at him. It did nothing to lessen his guilt. "Did this chocobo keep you company?"

Her eyes flicked toward the chubby chocobo. She nodded and pulled her thumb from her mouth, petting the chocobo's head with her slightly damp hand.

"Chika," she said.

"Chika…?" Regis glanced between her and the chocobo. "Is that her name?"

Reina nodded.

"Well. You must thank her, for me. It is a very important job, keeping the princess company while the king is away."

"Chika's not a chocobo," Noctis said. "She's too fat."

"Noctis," Regis said severely. "Chika is clearly a chocobo, regardless of whether or not she has overindulged in gysahl greens. Just as you would continue to be a little boy, even if you ate too much cake."

Noctis giggled. "I'm not a little boy!"

"My mistake," Regis said. "You are nearly five, now. A  _big_ boy, then. And what did you name your cactuar?"

Noctis glanced back at his bed, where the stuffed cactuar sat amongst the tousled blankets. "Cat," he said succinctly.

"Cat," Regis repeated.

"Mhm!"

Regis glanced at Jenet. "I think, perhaps, the prince would like to have a cat."

"Yes, Your Majesty." She curtsied.

Crea would have argued that just because Noctis wanted a cat, didn't mean it was necessarily a good idea to give him one. Doubtless she would have been right. But just now, if Noctis wanted anything at all, Regis was inclined to give it to him.

The next weeks passed with little incident and too much tension. He spoke briefly to Sylva before she returned to Tenebrae; it wasn't her fault that any of this was happening, but somehow it felt better to have someone tangible to blame it on. She only mentioned that she suspected their drive back to Insomnia had encountered far too many daemons for the number she expected to be in Lucis. Which either meant she had miscalculated and matters were worse off than anticipated, or else that those few daemons that were in Lucis had been, for one reason or another, drawn to them. With that in mind she advised him to stay inside the Wall. And she took her leave of them, promising to answer if he had need of her again.

Regis argued frequently with himself over whether it was preferable to see his son as often as possible or not. On the one hand, every moment he was apart from Noctis felt like a moment wasted. On the other hand, when he was buried waist-deep in work, Regis could just manage to forget what awaited them. If only for a little while. In the end, it proved a moot point. He could no more spend every waking moment with Noctis than he could surrender his kingdom to Niflheim. And so they were apart more often than not. And so Regis fell asleep in the chair in their room more often than not. If Crea had still been with them, she would have dragged him away and put him properly to bed. But if Jenet had any notion of Regis' odd nocturnal activities, she made no comment.

August came. The days seemed to either pass too quickly or too slowly, depending on whether or not Regis was allowed time with his children. Plans were made for their fifth birthday party, and Regis paid very little attention to any of it. Jenet had asked him—politely and apprehensively—multiple times that month if he meant to send them to school in the city or hire private tutors for them. He still had no answer for her. To send them to school would give them a chance to make friends. Much as he understood that, for a prince or princess, making friends was a delicate business fraught with more politics than were strictly necessary, he wanted to grant them the opportunity, at least. But if he sent them away, he would have no chance to see them during those school hours. Not that he usually had much chance to see them during the day, but occasionally…

He couldn't make the choice. He brushed Jenet off each time she asked and then neglected to think about it while he had the chance. While he deliberated, the world turned and life continued, with or without him. The Lucii were with him more often than not, as if they knew as well as he did: the Chosen King was coming.

The prince and princess' fifth birthday arrived. Regis hadn't slept that night, but somehow Avun managed to make him look as if he had. He was still standing in his room, undecided as to whether or not he could even bring himself to face his children when Clarus came for him. A steady rain fell over Insomnia. Suitably drab weather for the occasion. What would Aulea have said, if he had been forced to tell her their only son was sentenced to death? For once, Regis was grateful she wasn't with them anymore. At least she hadn't lived to see this. At least she had gone to her grave believing that her children would have full and happy lives—or as full and happy as the throne allowed for them.

"Will you do it now?" Clarus asked.

"I should prefer not to do it at all."

Clarus grasped his shoulder. "I know."

Regis continued to stare out the window, silent for another moment. "No. Let him have his day without interruptions. Afterward, we will…"

"You don't intend to tell him, do you?"

Regis turned to look at him, eyebrows coming together in the middle. "Of course not. He is only five."

"How much will you tell the council?"

Regis sighed, deflating, and turned back to the window. He had thought a great deal on what to tell the council, the past month. He had yet to come to a suitable conclusion.

"I do not know," he said. "I suppose it must be said that the crystal has recognized the Chosen King, but…"

Sylva's words came back to him. If Noctis was the King of Light then, in all likelihood, it was Reina who would become the next Queen of Lucis. Of course, thirty-five—if he did, indeed, live that long—was not too young to have produced an heir. It was, however, too soon to have produced an heir who would have come of age. A regent would have to rule and the regent, if not the child's mother, would have to be Reina.

Just thinking about his five year old children forced onto the throne had him glowering out across the city. He clenched his fists at his sides. It would do him not good to think of them that way. They would grow up and the future of Lucis was at stake. These considerations needed to be had now, and if not by him then by whom?

"They will wish to know why you have brought the prince to stand before the crystal," Clarus said.

And so any further delay on the issue of which child, precisely, was his rightful heir would be impossible. He would have to choose one. And when he did, that child would have the eyes of Lucis on them forever. But it was not all bad. That child would also inherit the retinue they had assembled for the heir: a Shield and an adviser. If Reina sat the throne, she would have need of those. But while Noctis walked a long road in the dark, he would, as well.

Regis shook his head. "A choice must be made."

Clarus squeezed his shoulder. "Then let us go and appreciate what little of the day we have."

Appreciate what little uncertainty was left to them. For now, the path ahead was unclear. There remained a sliver of a possibility that all this worry was for not. Even so, Regis wasn't certain he didn't prefer the uncertainty. As soon as they crossed that threshold there would be no turning back. No more denial. No more hiding.

The prince and princess' fifth birthday was, by all accounts, a joyous affair. Regis couldn't have said, one way or another, because he didn't stay to attend. So many people gathered around to celebrate two little lives that were doomed to be cut short, in one way or another. The injustice of it plucked at him whenever he stood in their midst. So he fled. He took refuge in his study and buried himself in work—or tried to. Nothing could take his mind off of what must be done that evening. Several times, he nearly went back upstairs to sit with them. If it had been only his children waiting for him, he would have. But how could he sit in the midst of a party and pretend for everyone involved that he was happy? Happy to bring his son to his death.

In the end, Regis wasted away the afternoon pacing in his study. Avun brought him lunch, which he ignored. Reports from the Outlands, from Altissia, from Galahd, and even intelligence from Niflheim sat untouched on his desk. He had tried to read through one of them and found his eyes flicking back and forth over the same line over and over while he thought of carrying his five year old son to his doom.

Evening came. And with it, Clarus.

He stood by the door for a few moments while Regis stared out the window. The rains had not let up.

"It's time, Regis," he said.

Regis shut his eyes and lowered his head. No longer could he hide from this. No longer could he delay the inevitable. Every decision would have to be made as soon as he stepped out of the crystal chamber with the knowledge of Noctis' fate heavy in his heart. But the crystal was calling. The Lucii were whispering in his ears, urging him forward. For Lucis. For duty. For the light.

"Very well." Regis turned from the window and passed Clarus on his way out the door. Clarus fell into step to his right and behind him.

They passed an array of servants clearing away the remnants of the twins' birthday party from the main hall. It should have been done in the gardens, but the weather had eliminated that possibility. Compared to Regis' last birthday celebration, theirs had been small and quiet. A blessing for them, he hoped. Still more than he had been equipped to deal with, today.

Upstairs in the royal quarters, they found Reina and Noctis worn out by the day's activities. Amidst a pile of new toys, the pair of them dozed while young Ignis tidied the room around them. They were so peaceful. Regis was loath to disturb them. It was just another excuse, but he stood watching them sleep until Clarus urged him forward. He took one step, then another, and finally lowered to his knees beside them. If he was gentle, he might just manage to extract Noctis without waking either of them.

He detangled Noctis' arms from around Reina and Reina's arms from around Noctis. He pried the toy car from Noct's fingers, because he didn't much want to be hit in the head with it on accident. Then he eased his hands under Noct and scooped the sleeping child up into his arms. Clarus watched, silent throughout, saying not a word as they left the room together.

The crystal was in the innermost chamber of the Citadel; though it was on the ground floor it could only be accessed from above. Few people could gain access to the halls surrounding it and fewer still could enter the crystal's own chamber: the latter list numbered one and only one. It wasn't that he didn't trust, for instance, Clarus or Cor inside the crystal's chamber, simply that no one but himself had any business going there. This evening, Regis wished he had no business going there, himself.

But the crystal called, and the Caelums answered, as they had ever done. The legend of it was passed down from father to son to daughter for hundreds of years: the Founding King had pushed back against the Starscourge and, in so doing, gained the recognition of the Gods. They had gifted him the crystal and the Ring of the Lucii, so that every Lucian monarch might protect his people from the encroaching darkness. In time, the power of the ring would swell alongside that of their bloodline and they would become strong enough to eradicate the Starscourge. All they need do was protect the crystal until that day. For the crystal, while not sentient, could weigh a man's worth and determine his destiny. It was the link between the natural power of Eos and the Caelum family.

It wasn't a legend that Regis had given much active thought to, before. That the generation foretold two thousand years ago would be his son's had never crossed his mind before the Lucii had suggested as much. And here they were, standing in the twilight before the great plunge into darkness, preparing to find out if the dawn would have to be bought with Noctis' life. Regis might have stood outside the crystal chamber doors indefinitely. He would never be ready to know.

But he did not have the luxury to linger forever. By the time he and Clarus reached the inner chambers of the Citadel, word had spread of their destination. The surrounding hallways were full of too many people merely for happenstance. Some were merely curious servants or Crownsguards. Others were court officials and nobles. By the time they returned, doubtless the whole of the council would have assembled on short notice. He would have to think of something to tell them.

The entrance to the crystal chamber was through a control room, behind a blast door fit for a bank vault. Protect the crystal: the first tenet of the Caelum family. So they had put it under lock and key and constant watch. It had always seemed insufficient, if the whole of Eos' future depended on it.

The blast doors opened for Regis and Noctis. He left Clarus behind in the control room; he didn't have enough strength even to share one last glance with him. It was time to face the inevitable. The doors sealed behind them; the resounding clang echoed through the crystal chamber and then there was silence. Somehow, Noctis slept on.

The crystal was housed in a circular room at the very center of the three Citadel towers. A line of columns supported arches just inside from the walls, forming a room within a room. Past the arches, the ceiling sloped up in a dome, culminating in a glass center, where the light of the crystal could escape the Citadel and power the Wall. The crystal itself sat in the center of the room, encased in a hexagonal prism of rotating mirrors. The Caelum who had designed it was a genius among pigeons: that the light itself held the properties of the crystal's magic had been well-known throughout the long Lucis-Caelum history, but that the magic might be concentrated and amplified by the right configuration of mirrors had taken a spark of brilliance that Regis certainly did not possess.

The tile floor surrounding the crystal was lit up with the glow of the crystal; even with the mirrors shut, some power bled out the bottom, so that just walking across the floor felt like wading through knee-deep water. And that was nothing to the power contained within. Regis reached out with his magic and felt it thrumming within him. He threw wide the mirrors and violet light poured over him, filling the chamber with the crystal's magic. This was pure, untamed power. This was the blood of Eos.

He shut his eyes and let it wash over him. It soaked into his skin and bones, refilling reserves that had been low ever since Niflheim's attack on Insomnia. But it was wild energy, raging and boiling in his veins. Just to use it would cost him. Nothing came free, from the crystal.

Noctis shifted in his arms. Regis extracted one hand to smooth his hair back. He kissed Noct's forehead and held him a little tighter. They had come all this way. Much as Regis still wished to turn back, he knew it was too late. It had always been too late. He did not walk a path so much as he rode a train car, which took him down rails he had always wished to avoid. He might throw on the brakes, now and then, but it would only delay the inevitable.

Regis stepped forward. Within the broken prism of mirrors, the massive geode pulsed with unearthly light; it called to him without a voice, sang to him without a melody.

"We have come," Regis said.

The light in the crystal flared so bright that Regis was forced to shut his eyes. He shielded Noctis, though Noct's eyes were already closed. If Regis had, indeed, been brought before the crystal as a child, he had no recollection of this—this piercing light, which shone through everything that he was. It laid bare all his faults, shining in the darkest corners of his soul. It brought to light everything he was and ever had been: his fears, his fantasies, and his deepest regrets. It knew his dormant desire to flee and leave behind all that a Caelum was meant to be; it knew the great ache of loneliness in his soul that no one could fill; it knew the hatred he felt for it and the Astrals and every power of fate that would take his son away from him. Nothing was hidden. Nothing was safe.

He knew not for how long they stood there while the crystal weighed and tested every ounce of their mettle. When the light finally subsided, Regis' cheeks were wet with tears. And the worst was yet to come.

_:This child holds the amassed strength of thy bloodline. The age of the prophecy has arrived; he is Chosen.:_

The voice did not belong to the crystal, nor to Regis' father or any other Lucii. It sounded in his mind and rumbled in his chest until his head ached from the pressure of it. Only a few times in his life had he heard that voice. The voice of the Draconian.

Yet, even at his confirmation, Regis felt none of the dread he had expected. While the light drained away from the crystal, cold resignation settled into Regis' soul. The inevitability of Noctis' fate had finally been laid bare before him. He would mourn—quietly, on his own, for he had no one to share this grief with—but to resist would have been futile. The Lord Bahamut had spoken. Noctis would die for Eos and the light.

He lingered in the crystal chamber long enough to dry his eyes and then he turned away. The council would need to know. An official statement would have to be made. For his part, Regis had already made the decisions he had so long deliberated over.

Everything would go to Noctis. Every concession Regis could make, every benefit he could give, he would. The rest didn't matter. If Noctis was to die for his destiny, then he would have a life to remember before then. He would live sixty years in twenty. He would have  _everything_. And Gods damn any who tried to stand in the way.

Regis closed the mirrors and left the crystal chamber once more. Clarus was the only one, aside from the Crownsguards, waiting in the control room. The hopeful look on his face died with one glance at Regis. He bowed his head, not daring to speak any words where they might be overheard and repeated, then drew himself up to stand beside Regis, the perfect picture of Shield and Royal Adviser once more. If Regis could manage such a face as that while they faced the council, it would be an accomplishment indeed.

Outside the control room doors, a small crowd awaited them. The full council, as Regis had suspected, had assembled. Cor was among them. So, too, were some few of the others who could gain access to these halls: General Drautos and even Avun—though whether Avunculus had come simply because he followed Regis everywhere or not was uncertain.

Silence fell when Regis and Clarus stepped out into the hall. He let it stretch while he gathered his words and prepared himself to say them without a quiver in his voice or a catch in his throat.

"The crystal has measured my son's worth and judgement has been passed." Somehow, he managed a voice fit for a king, rather than a broken man who sentenced his son to death. "The King of Light has come. The time of the prophecy is at hand. I hearby declare my son the Crown Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, and recognize him as my heir. When darkness veils the world, he will deliver dawn unto us."

A murmur went through the assembled group. Councillors exchanged excited looks and fevered words, whispering amongst themselves. Cor alone continued to stare at Regis with a searching gaze. Perhaps he knew or guessed there was more to this, and that the announcement was hardly cause for celebration. Even so, he remained stoic and silent. If he had questions he would ask them later. Clarus could answer them.

"This is grand news, indeed, Your Majesty," Hamon said at last. "If Prince Noctis is the Chosen King, then we must arrange for the ceremony posthaste."

"Indeed," Regis said. "For now, I leave all considerations for the crowning of the heir in the hands of this council. The prince wants for sleep, and I must return him to his nannies."

There were murmurs of ascent as he passed through the ranks of the council, down the winding hallway, and into the corridors beyond, with Clarus, Cor, and Avun trailing after him. More people were assembled without. Regis spared them only a passing glance of acknowledgement. They would know, soon enough, what had passed. He did not think he could hold together for more than one announcement. Not now.

"So he is to be heir, after all," Clarus said, once they were free of the crowds. "With Gladiolus as his shield and Ignis as his adviser."

"Yes," Regis said.

"And Princess Reina?" Clarus asked.

"What of her?"

"Well, previously, Gladio and Ignis were declared to both of them. In so choosing Noctis, you deprive her of a retinue."

"She will be fine," Regis said. Perhaps she would have need of one, eventually. Perhaps she would inherit Noctis'. Either way, Noctis would have greater need of friends at his side, in the path he walked through life. "They will hardly be split apart. I expect the four of them to become friends, regardless of who serves whom."

Clarus bowed his head to that and let the subject go. When they reached the upper levels of the Citadel, Regis turned to look at his own retinue, still trailing after him. Whatever he asked of them, they would have given; if he had wished to return to his rooms and drown his sorrows in a bottle of whiskey, they would have accompanied him; they would have listened to his woes and refilled his glass and made certain he made it to his own bed alive when the alcohol rendered him senseless.

But what he wanted, just then, had nothing to do with companionship or a stiff drink. Nothing could touch the ache in his soul, nothing could drown out the wailing within his heart.

"Leave me," he said. And they went.

Regis did not return Noctis to his room. He retired to his own room, sleeping child still in his arms, and sat them both down in an armchair by the windows. Outside, rain fell thick and heavy over Insomnia, lit only by the glow of the city and the light of the Wall.

This.

This was what he would give everything to protect.

The promise of fealty and service had not seemed so costly a thing when it was only his own life he was sworn to give up. Now the crystal demanded the life of his son, as well. Was there nothing the Gods could ask for that he would not give?

Tears fell thick and silent down his face. He held Noctis closer, pressing his lips to Noct's hair, and Noctis stirred just enough to push him away.

He made up his mind that no word of this should reach Noctis. Eventually he would know of his fate, but not until he was old enough. Perhaps, for the secrets kept from him, he would grow to hate Regis in those last moments. Or perhaps he would understand. Regardless, Regis meant to protect him until the very last.

They both slept through the night in Regis' bed, with Regis still in his suit. In the morning he would ask Jenet to enroll them in a school in the city. Noctis would have a life beyond the walls of the Citadel, as well as he was able. He would make friends and experience the world outside the realm of royalty. And he would be happy.

For as long as he was able to be.


End file.
